TRUST ME: VOLUME II
by NokuMarieDeux
Summary: Despite getting off to a rocky start, the mission to unite hearts and minds continues...


**TRUST ME • A SUPRANATURAL TALE IN FOUR VOLUMES**

**VOLUME II**

**PART FOUR • TUESDAY**

CHAPTER 9: _**"Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart" **_• Confucius

**The day did not start out auspiciously.** A steady rain fell from darkly overcast skies. Everyone was in an equally dark mood and bickering erupted almost immediately they assembled in the kitchen, beginning with Steve and Ron.

"We don't need another car. The Rover's got plenty of mileage left in her," Steve griped.

"Easy for you to say, mate... you're not the one having to keep 'er running!" Ron retorted and complained to the room at large. "Never a minute's peace around here... either up to my knees in manure or up to my armpits in grease!"

"Ha! When you're not skivving off... which is most of the time!" Steve said belligerently.

Dora jumped in. "We're getting the Cortina and that's that, so shut up about it, Steve!"

"And where's your American wonderboy? Still cozied up nice and warm in bed, I'll bet," Steve sneered.

"If you lot don't get a move on, won't no one get any breakfast!" Slugger threatened with a scowl.

And so it went as everyone climbed into their wet weather gear. The last one awake, Bernard had silently descended the stairs but upon overhearing the commotion in the kitchen wisely parked himself in the shadows on the first landing, intending to remain out of range until the arguments ran out of fuel. Which they showed no sign of doing as the trio moved out of doors, passing Dottie on her way in.

Slugger, ever the gentleman, rushed to help the housekeeper out of her wet things and insisted she warm herself by the stove with a cup of tea before setting to work. Clutching his boots and socks, Bernard had furtively scooted to the bottom of the staircase. Pausing to work out if there was any way of getting to the mudroom and out the door without being seen, he was spotted by Dottie, who crooked an imperious finger.

"You there. Come here." Bernard apprehensively sidled into the kitchen.

"Sit!" He sat down, hard, clutching his boots to his chest and shooting rabbity glances toward the exit.

"You, too, Edward." Slugger sat.

Dottie addressed herself to Slugger, ignoring Bernard for the moment. "Before I pass along what I learned yesterday evening, do you have any questions for this... _person_?"

_Questions, she asks!_ Of course he did... the biggest one being, did he really want to hear the answers? With his eyes darting back and forth between Bernard and the housekeeper, Slugger screwed up his courage and cleared his throat before speaking hesitantly.

"Dottie had some right disturbin' things to say yesterday... about you, about herself... put me off, it did. I'm wonderin' how much truth were in it."

Their eyes locked and held.

"I imagine whatever she told you is most likely true," Bernard sighed, "so I suppose you'll be wanting an explanation. You probably won't like it, though."

"But... what are you?" Slugger blurted out.

"Pardon?"

"Are you... real?" It came out as a growl.

Bernard rolled his eyes. " '_If you prick us, do we not bleed?' "_

Seeing Slugger's incomprehension, he sighed and added, "Shakespeare. Merchant of Venice. Geez, don't any of you folks read around here?"

"That's enough out of you," Dottie warned, dropping her I'm-just-a-simple-countrywoman façade and turning to Slugger. "I brought our dilemma before the board and, as it happens, our Madame President is aware of this _person's_ presence. Lady Elayne vouches for him and claims he's under her protection. In any case, all was explained."

"Could you... er... explain it to me, please?" Slugger inquired.

"First of all, we can rest assured this _person_ is not here to harm anyone and poses no threat to us."

Slugger wondered if a character reference from a witch was all that reliable—even if she was president of an organization and a titled (by marriage) lady as well.

"He's been sent here on an authorized mission with a bearing on future events. A successful outcome will cement the relationship between Steve and Dora. If it fails, they won't be any worse off than they currently are. I can't recall an instance where one of his kind has ever been enlisted in this sort of endeavor—it contravenes all tradition. Used to be charms and spells were good enough but perhaps times have changed and it's the modern way," Dottie sniffed.

"This _'person'_ has a name," Bernard muttered.

"Shut up. I'll get to you in a minute."

"Yes m'am."

"She says we're to regard this _person_ as a facilitator... a sort of counselor... for people who can't resolve their differences and need someone outside the situation to talk them through their troubles. Edward, you've done your best as a surrogate father to help them along—better than their own parents could have done—but it hasn't been enough. And that isn't your fault. This _person's_ job is to bring them together. Apparently in his own dimension he's considered an expert at this sort of thing. She asks for our forbearance... for us to have faith that this is going to work out and to trust him on this. We're to let him proceed as he sees fit. Do you understand?"

Slugger didn't understand anything but nodded his head in agreement.

Dottie turned her attention to Bernard. Her eyes pinned him to the chair like a deer caught in headlights. Her voice was soft and steady, but menacing.

"I know what you are, Bernard."

"Yes m'am."

"And I expect you know what I am."

"Yes m'am."

"Just so we're clear on where we stand with each other."

"Yes m'am. Got it."

"Now, I realize my presence has thrown a spanner into what was supposed to be a covert operation. Believe me, I was just as surprised to see you as you were to see me. Had I been apprised beforehand I would never have spilled the beans to Edward. However, as that can't be undone and Edward and I share your desire to unite Steven and Dora, Lady Elayne strongly suggests we combine forces and render aid in any way possible. But in order to do that, we'll need to know your plans for executing this mission. What have you accomplished so far? Go on, young man... or whatever you are. Speak up!"

Not entirely reassured , Bernard proceeded cautiously.

"I started with a baseline drawn from case notes. Steve and Dora love each other—that's a given—but they can't openly admit it to each other for a variety of reasons. That's the first obstacle. I've opened up a dialogue with both and introduced some topics for their consideration, and I've provided some initiatives about ways to deal with their issues. That was yesterday. Today I'm expecting... hoping... to find which if any of my suggestions have taken root... so I'll have a clearer idea how to create an interface."

"Interface?" This from Dottie.

"Yeah... once I've got a lock on a viable interface, I'll concentrate on realigning their operating systems and tweaking their hardwiring to bring their software into compatibility..."

Blank stares. "Say what?" Slugger finally said.

"What I mean is, I have to identify parallel areas of interest and expectations then get them to think in the same direction and on the same level—intellectually, logically and emotionally. Once they reach the point where they can publicly acknowledge that they _are_ in love with each other, it follows that they'll recognize the need to _do_ something about it... in theory, anyway."

Dottie sneered. "We're talking about love here. Logic doesn't enter into it. Neither does intelligence. Seems to me all talk and no action isn't going to win the day. What's your fallback plan if plain talk doesn't suffice?" The woman was relentless, but Bernard had regained some spirit.

"Gimme a break! It's only the second day and I don't have a Plan B yet. I'm doing the best I can," he said doggedly.

"Then you'll have to do better, won't you?" she snapped. "I understand you're on an advanced schedule. A poke in their primal instincts with a sharp stick would get the job done sooner."

"I'm not following..." Bernard said, puzzled.

"Oh... I know you're not that thick, laddie," Dottie retorted. "It wouldn't take much to ignite Steve. All you have to do is provoke him into believing someone else has a serious interest in Dora and he'll go off like a Roman candle."

"Are you suggesting we bring in someone to pretend to go after Dora? Like live bait?"

"Hey... wait a minute!" Slugger objected and was ignored.

Dottie pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Why would we need to introduce a new player when we already have _you_?" she said smugly.

"What?! Me? No. No no no. No! I can't get involved that way! It wouldn't be ethical." Bernard objected.

"I'm not saying really _involved_... just act as if you are. That shouldn't be too great a stretch for someone with your _special_ abilities. It'll be easy as pie. You're already here. She already likes you and he doesn't. All you have to do is attract her attention away from him long enough and he'll blast off like a Polaris missile!"

"Oi! I ain't havin' him triflin' with Dora's affections!" Slugger huffed.

"Thanks for the suggestion but no thanks!" Bernard stated, gesturing at the puce-colored discolorations on his throat. "I've already enjoyed my ration of pounding for the week. I'm sticking to Plan A, if you don't mind."

Dottie shrugged. "Have it your way. But if you end up having to resort to Plan B—as I expect you will—I trust you'll be keeping your own primal instincts in your trousers... or else!" She didn't need to expound on the implicit threat. "So let's just hope it won't come to that. And another thing... it simply won't do for you to skulk around and avoid me as if you expect to be stuffed into a stew pot at any moment. They'll become suspicious. I've given my word I won't harm you and I won't... unless you cross the line. I'm sure I needn't explain what that line is."

"Yes m'am. Farthest thing from my mind." Bernard remained polite but guarded.

She wasn't quite done with him yet. "Your hair wants cutting," she reproved.

"Could we leave my hair out of this, please?"

Dottie shook her head sadly. "Your poor parents... must have been a great trial and tribulation to them, their only son being differently oriented."

"With all due respect, m'am, I didn't choose to be the way I am."

"Still... a great pity. Now go do whatever you're meant to be doing. Get those socks and boots on or you'll be getting the tetanus. We don't need that aggravation!" Once a mother, always a mother.

Bernard dutifully dragged on his footwear, excused himself and stalked out of the kitchen to join the others outside.

Slugger was mystified. "Differently what?"

"Oh, nothing important... it's just that his people are all cat—as I suspected—and he's... not. It's like having a son turn out to be a poofter, is all," Dottie explained offhandedly, abruptly shifting from inquisitor to housekeeper mode. "When was the last time any new towels or sheets came into this house? All the ones here are only fit for the ragbag."

"Cat? But what about...?"

Dottie tut-tutted. "I'll speak with Dora about bringing some down from the big house if the moths haven't got at them. They're no use to anyone sitting up there in storage. And the curtains in the boys' rooms are a disgrace."

"What I wanted to..."

"There's clothing all over the floors in all their rooms, but I'll soon break them of that habit. I'll be bringing a couple of extra hampers from home and..."

**Mucking out took twice as long as usual.** They had to work around the horses still in their stalls and the animals were restless, cantankerous and not inclined to move out of the way. As rain always manages to work its way down the necks of mackintoshes and into boots, the four stablehands were damp and chilled by the time they were free to come into a late breakfast. Steve had managed to dispense a few caustic remarks regarding Bernard's tardy arrival but the squabbling had diminished in the face of their shared misery. Both Dottie and Slugger fussed and insisted they first all change into dry clothing.

No one but Dora noticed the housekeeper giving Bernard stern looks every time she emerged from the scullery. Bernard seemed to shrink into himself and kept his eyes determinedly fixed on his cereal. Breakfast was consumed in monasterial silence until they were done and Dora reiterated what was on for the day.

"The new furniture I've ordered for the parlor is scheduled for delivery today. It's supposed to stop raining by the afternoon," Dora announced. "The paint is finally dry in Slugger's room so Dottie and I will be moving him back in. We'll need some help. Who wants to volunteer?"

Steve held up a hand. "Me! I'll do it. We have paperwork to attend to later anyway, Dora."

"Good. Ron and Bernard... you two can go sort out the old tackroom. It's a pigsty." Ron grumbled but Bernard was happy to oblige... anything to get away from that terrifying woman—not Dora... the other one.

Dora had in mind a complete makeover for the stuffy Edwardian parlor and would have liked to redecorate Slugger's room as well, but there he held his ground, wanting everything back exactly as it had been. He had, however, agreed to new curtains and duvet. It didn't take long to set it to rights, after which Steve and Dora closeted themselves in the study to go over the books.

In prior years, Slugger had kept receipts in a shoebox and a running list of expenses in a simple ledger, which the Colonel would settle at the end of the month. After the the Colonel's death, however, Lawyer Burnham had sent over his personal accountant to instruct Dora in the financial workings of the farm and the intricacies of double entry bookkeeping. Paperwork of any kind had never been her forté; it made her head spin and her eyes blur. The accountant had also made suggestions about reconfiguring the study into a proper office. The Colonel's ornate desk had been sent into storage and replaced with a sturdy work table. Steve had even less business acumen than herself and it took a while to get him interested in this endeavor although he'd never been short of opinions concerning how the farm should be managed and funds disbursed. Now, though they'd never admitted as much to each other, each relished the time they spent together in the closeness of the room, sitting side by side at the table with elbows touching.

**The only available light in the old tackroom** came from a single low-wattage bulb suspended from the ceiling and, in daytime, a small grimy window. Ron took a paraffin hurricane lamp from a row of six on a low shelf and attempted to light it. The sputtering wick smoked and refused to catch. Same with the second one. The third one caught and gave off only the feeblest of light. Bernard laughed when Ron groaned dramatically.

"Those could do with some cleaning and refilling, looks like," Bernard said, clapping his workmate on the shoulder. "We should do that first. Or I'll do it if you want to get started on the tack."

Ron grunted and assembled the materials. "Nah. Might as well do 'em all and get it over with."

They dragged bales of straw as close to the open door as they could sit without getting wet and set about the task, making light conversation as they worked. An hour ticked by unnoticed as Ron recited the history of the acquisition and refurbishment of his prized motorbike, a topic to which Bernard contributed nothing, claiming massive ignorance where combustion engines of any ilk were concerned. When asked, Bernard allowed as how he liked Yorkshire very much as its topographic features were similar to the area of Montana from which he hailed. Ron expressed an interest in someday being able to visit the American west. Like many other country boys, he had been lured to The City—London, with its promise of bright lights and action—for a short period of time during his late teens, but had soon grown disillusioned with the crowds, the pollution, the frenetic pace of city life. In short, he had been homesick for the wide skies and rolling hills of Yorkshire.

"So here I am, mucking out stables for a living. Not much to show for twenty-three years in the world, is it?"

Bernard responded with the same advice he'd given Steve about defining his ambitions and pursuing a higher education with which to achieve his goals.

Listening attentively, Ron was suddenly struck with two illuminating flashes of insight: One, that he was thoroughly enjoying the easy exchange of views with this odd Yank... a polar opposite of Ron's mates in the village—a gang of rowdy, raucous, boisterous louts whose ideas of good times ran to perpetrating cruel jokes on weaker folks and mindless destruction of property, just because they could. Kindness and consideration were words alien to their vocabulary. Two, that it would be nice to have a confidante with whom he could share his innermost thoughts and feelings, his hopes and dreams... a concept that would have his mates howling with derision. They would perceive such an association as a weakness and would turn on him like a pack of jackals.

It further occurred to Ron that he'd been blind to the most likely candidate for such a friendship: Steve, with whom he had worked side by side for three years and yet hardly knew. They talked, sure, but never on deep or personal subjects. They exchanged jokes and banalities and played pranks on each other. Occasionally they fought, once with a very real intent to injure on Steve's part that had scared Ron, temporarily, into a more sober regard for Steve's sensibilities. Ron realized with regret and shame that he'd been playing the part of jackal all along... too often goading Steve just to see how much he could get away with and creating difficulties just for the fun of it. And Ron wondered if, now, it was far too late to attempt cultivating a closer friendship.

"Earth to Ron! Come in, Ron." Bernard dragged the redhead back to the real world. "Let there be light!"

With two of the newly cleaned and refilled lanterns hung on overhead hooks, they turned to their original chore. They fell to rearranging cans and boxes in a more orderly fashion and started a trash pile for obviously useless or worn-out items. In short order they had finished and the tackroom was organized to a degree they both agreed would satisfy Dora.

Ron placed improvised saddle trees on two bales of straw and drew up two more bales. "My own invention, these," he said proudly. "So's you can sit down while workin'." He went to fetch the supplies—soap, conditioner, sponges, clean rags, bristle brushes and metal cleaner—two of everything. Lastly he dragged out an old beaten-up footlocker and wrested open the lid.

"Been meaning to work on this some," he crowed, lifting out a burlap bag with something bulky in it. Unveiled, the something turned out to be an ancient Western stock saddle, rubbed and worn with the leather cracked in places but in serviceable condition... barely.

Bernard took one look and snickered. "Where in hell did you dig up that relic?"

"What? All it needs is a bit of cleaning up and it'll be good as new, I reckon. Got it at a pawnshop last year."

Bernard leaned forward for a closer inspection. "Vintage Heisner Denver. 1880s I'd say... look at that cantle. You couldn't fall outta that in an earthquake. Probably worth more now than it cost new, especially if fully restored. Nice tooling on the skirts and fenders but a bitch to clean."

Ron gave Bernard a calculating look from under his red fringe. "Bet you got one like this at home, right?"

"Nope. But my dad does; inherited it from his dad. I don't use saddles, myself."

Ron was flabbergasted. "Steve says you live on a ranch, with cows and wild horses. How can you be a proper cowboy without a proper saddle?"

"I never said I was a cowboy. Which of these saddles should I do first?"

"Oh... er, Copper's I suppose, if you aim on bein' Dora's new swain."

"Her what?"

"You know, boyfriend."

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Why wouldn't you want to be, unless maybe you already got a bird of your own at home?"

Bernard paused and gave Ron a cool look. "If I do, it's my business. And it appears Dora's already got a full plate."

"Steve, you mean? Nah. Nothin' going on with them two... Steve don't love nobody but hisself."

"He just might. You never know."

"Why don't _you_ ask her out? Don't you think she's pretty?"

"Very pretty, yes. Why haven't you asked her out yourself?"

Ron looked around guiltily. "I sorta did, when she first come here. I offered, see, but...um..."

"But?"

"Wipeout. Not interested. I know I'm not as good-lookin' as Steve but I'm a fun bloke if she'd only given me half a chance. Maybe I was too flash or something."

Bernard looked at him critically. "Could be. Some girl like flash... some don't. Dora strikes me as the kind of girl who goes for the quiet, introspective type... like Steve. I wouldn't take that as a personal rejection, though."

"I reckon I did... at first... no man wants to think he's not good enough."

"And now?"

"Now we're more like brother and sister. Probably better that way, with Hazel in the picture. How come you know so much about birds, anyway?"

"Six older sisters. I'm the only boy. Believe me, I know what women want. Been hearing it all my life." Bernard rolled his eyes. "Sure, they all go for the good looks; that and money... in the beginning. But ultimately it's a man who knows how to love—in the heart, I mean, not the other thing... although that's important, too, when they get old enough to know about that. A man who's smart, dependable, considerate, gentle and pleasant company. Someone who's kind to children, animals and old people. They want to feel cherished and protected. Dora sees all these qualities in Steve although he doesn't recognize them in himself."

"They sure want an awful lot, don't they?" Ron hooted.

"Well, think about it: Don't you want the woman you finally decide to spend the rest of your life with to have those qualities?"

"Yeah. I guess so," Ron admitted grudgingly. "But I wouldn't say no to a rich knock-out. Just kiddin'... I'm with Hazel now, anyway. But for the record, what's Steve got that I don't got?"

"Who knows why one person is attracted to another, Ron? It just happens that way. I don't pretend to understand how women _think_, Ron. Sometimes they get all those things and it still isn't enough."

There were a few moments of silence as Ron processed this information.

Bernard threw in a non sequitur with a grin. "There is _one_ thing you have that he doesn't... red hair! Do you know you're an endangered specie?"

"Say again?"

"It's true. Scientists estimate that only one to two percent of the entire world's population has red hair and only four percent carry the gene for it. They predict that in another hundred years there won't be any natural redheads left on the planet."

"Is that true?"

"Scout's honor. All the more reason for you to settle down, so you can start contributing to the gene pool and save redheads from extinction."

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Steve bearing a Thermos and three mugs.

"**Ah! The tea fairy cometh... and not before time, too!"** Ron jumped up to take the items from Steve so he could get out of his soggy mac. "What? No biscuits?"

Steve shook his head, spraying droplets of water everywhere. "Mrs. Doyle says too close to lunch. Why does it smell like cinnamon in here?"

Ron gave him a confused look. "Cinnamon? I thought it was coconut. Oh well... come to join us, have you?"

"Until that delivery van gets here with the new furniture."

Steve caught sight of the newly polished Western saddle, its old and worn leather gleaming in the lantern light. "That's coming along nicely, Ron. I've never seen you put that much effort into anything."

"Bernard says it might be worth a mint can I fix it up."

"Somewhere between two and three thousand," Bernard said, "to the right collector."

"Two or three thousand quid? No way!"

"Dollars... and yes way... you could list it on eBay and... never mind."

Steve and Ron looked at each other and shrugged. Steve pulled up his own bale and set to work on a bridle.

"So, what have you two been talkin' about?"

"Your ears burnin', mate?" Ron quipped, then faltered under Steve's expression.

"Just jokin'," he amended. "Girls. Life. What else is there, eh? Bernard here was expoundin' on his knowledge of women."

"Don't let me interrupt, then. Go on." Steve said drily. "We're dying to hear, aren't we, Ron?"

"Bernard here thinks it's time you and me get married and settle down, start raising a family."

Steve chortled. "Sorry, mate, you're not my type."

Bernard stopped rubbing and looked up, his green eyes almost phosphorescent in the soft yellow lamplight. "What I was telling Ron was that the qualities women look for in a potential spouse aren't all that different from what we men want in the wife of our dreams."

Steve had nothing to say, his head down and his face obscured by shadow and wings of dark hair as he continued polishing.

In a rare moment of honesty, Ron confessed, "Any road, I don't know I'd make a very good husband or father. I'm kinda scared of the whole idea. Me Mum doted on me, when I was a little 'un, but she died. And me dad... I reckon I'm somethin' of an embarrassment to him. Shiftless, he says. Won't hardly look at me much less talk to me these days. What if I turned out like him and treated my sprouts like worthless dogs?" There were tones of regret and more than a little sadness in his voice. "Slugger's more a dad to me than me real dad's ever been."

"Same here," Steve said softly. "I don't remember my father. He died when I was two. My mother didn't have any use for me, either. Still doesn't. She left me at an orphanage when I was four. Slugger, Dora, Ron and Hazel—they're my family now. I wouldn't know how to be a good father, either."

Bernard looked from one to the other. "Well, now. I disagree. I think you'd both make good husbands and even better fathers, precisely because you _do_ know what's been missing from your lives. I think you would both love your wives and keep them close, and you'd be good to your children and never pass up an opportunity to show your love for them, either, because you both know how it feels to be unloved. Dora will make an wonderful wife and mother for the very same reasons."

Apparently this was a subject that had never been broached with either Steve or Ron, and Bernard could see that he had their rapt attention. He pressed on.

"I hope that my legacy to my children will be that they remember me with the same love and respect I have for my folks. I take family happiness for granted so I probably won't be challenged to work as hard at it as you guys will. My folks were strong disciplinarians but we didn't fault them for that. A good parent sets boundaries as well as a good example of how life should be lived. We kids tested the limits and their patience because that's what children do. We knew right from wrong, even though every once in a while wrong was just a little bit too tempting to resist. If we weren't caught, we hadn't learned anything. When we were, which was most of the time, we took what was coming to us because we knew we deserved it. But we always, _always_ knew we were loved."

He let his two companions stew on that for a while. Ron stood up and stretched. "I'm taking a break." Which was Ron-code meaning he was going to find a dry hidey hole to sneak a smoke.

Steve and Bernard worked together in silence for a while before Steve finally spoke.

"I guess I've been too wrapped up in my own problems to think much about Ron's situation. He hasn't had it easy, either, with a father like that. I suppose I'd be tempted to show off, too, just to get the old man's attention if nothing else."

Bernard agreed.

"And Dora... she had all the advantages money could buy, but it never occurred to me that money can't buy love and attention from her parents. And it should have... it really should have because I had that brought home to me by my own mum. I tried to help her once, but it didn't mean anything to her. There was nothing I could do to make her love me. She didn't want me in her life."

Steve shook himself. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this. " he said curtly.

"The thing is, Steve," Bernard said softly, "when you do find the right woman, when you're sure she's the one, you have to trust your instincts and make that leap of faith into commitment before some other fellow beats you to the prize. Like we say back home, 'you snooze, you lose.' Dora may not be the _perfect_ woman, but if she's the perfect one for _you_ you'd better make a decision before someone else decides she's the perfect one for him."

"Like you, you mean?" Steve said ominously.

Bernard shook his head. "No, not me. I'm not the one. But someone very much like me."

"Anyway, Dora just thinks she's in love with me. It wouldn't work, us getting married."

"Why not?"

"You wouldn't understand. You come from a different world from us, as different as hers is from mine."

"You know, where you come from and what you were shouldn't matter. What should matter is where and what you are now. Looks to me like you and she are pretty much inhabiting the same world here. It would make sense to move forward together."

"Looks to me like you need to mind your own business," Steve said coolly. "We'd better finish up and start putting things away."

**After Dora and Steve had finished their paperwork** and he'd gone out to join the others, Dora lingered in the study, congratulating herself on her great good fortune in having obtained such a sterling individual as Dorothy Doyle to 'do' for them. She had only mentioned in passing, when stopping to pick up their weekly consignment of milk, butter and eggs, her intention to hire someone and Dottie had immediately offered up herself. With her Jeremy taking over the dairy and his wife increasingly in charge of domestic chores, Dottie needed 'something to keep active and a way to earn a bit of pin money.'

Dora had been delighted to accept the woman's proposal. Despite her and Slugger's best efforts, housekeeping was a hopeless endeavor. Other than her and Hazel's bedrooms, the old farmhouse retained its overall appearance of bachelor habitation. Dora recalled with grim amusement her uncle advising her that she would have to 'help Slugger clean house' if she wanted to live there. Up until then, she'd never lifted a finger at home except to summon her governess or a servant. She hadn't the faintest idea how lavatories got cleaned or stayed that way. A maid bore away soiled clothing and another one returned laundered and ironed frocks to her wardrobe and neatly folded delicates to her dresser drawers. Meals were conveyed to the table by other menials from the shadowy recesses of a cavernous kitchen forbidden to her, ruled by an ill-tempered Cook. Ponies and later full-sized horses had been presented to her all tacked up and ready to ride, later to be whisked away by efficient grooms to the stables... another area she wasn't allowed to frequent.

Yes, her way of life had certainly changed radically in the past three years. So had her perception of how ordinary folk lived. Though an unwilling and inattentive student in her years at boarding schools, Dora had absorbed the fact that a burgeoning 'new' middle class was furthering the divide between the privileged wealthy, who continued to employ domestic help, and the lower orders who provided those services. Previously, 'middle class' had encompassed all who fell between those ranks—the ordinary people who comprised the 'nation of shopkeepers' so derided by Napoleon.

The 'new' middle class were the so-called 'Baby Boomers'... the children born to returning soldiers at the conclusion of World War II... children who began reaching adulthood and entering the workforce some six to eight years ago, in ever greater numbers. Boomers had advantages over the preceding generation in that they were better nourished, better educated, better informed, and had access to material goods and emerging technologies such as their parents had never dreamed of. On the cusp of the information age, they had higher expectations than their parents and refuted the notion that one shouldn't attempt to rise above one's station. Boomer women kept their own homes, prepared their own meals, and raised their own offspring while holding down professional positions or fulltime jobs outside the home. It was a new order and Dora meant to adapt herself to coping with it. Still, she was profoundly grateful that they now had a competent hand at the housekeeping helm.

A mouthwatering aroma drifted from the kitchen down the hall and into the study. Dora got up and followed it back to where Dottie was laying the table for lunch.

"Cock-a-leekie soup made with potatoes instead of barley, and yeast rolls warm from the oven with fresh dairy butter," Dottie announced, adding, "I even made some up special without the chicken for the vegetarian. Would you call those boys in and make sure they wash up? I'll be upstairs sorting the linen cupboard, so that Bernard can eat in peace. I seem to cause him indigestion."

Dora opened her mouth to ask exactly what was the problem between stablehand and housekeeper, but the latter had already gone up the stairs. Dora went to ring the bell for lunch, noting that the rain had slackened off as she had hoped.

**They had scarcely finished eating when the delivery van chugged up the driveway.** The housekeeper swooped downstairs, ordering the boys to clear the table and do the washing up and directing the driver and his assistant to pull around to the front side of the house with its rarely used double doors that opened into a foyer. They would then only have to negotiate the front steps, the foyer and a left turn into the parlor. She had already laid down old blankets and towels so that they wouldn't track mud onto the new fitted carpeting. Fortunately, the front drive of the house had always been kept well-graveled right up to the steps. The delivery men were efficient and accomplished their task within an hour.

A removal van arrived shortly thereafter. Dora had also engaged haulers to take away all the old furniture which had been temporarily pushed into the unused dining room. As they were all antiques and probably valuable, they were to be stored at Hollin Hall. Steve and Ron were detailed to follow the van in the LandRover to let the men in and help them unload it.

Slugger plopped into his rocker by the stove, preparing to take his customary après-lunch siesta. Dottie loomed over him. "And just what do you think you're doing? We're not done yet!"

"Aw Dottie..."

"Don't 'aw Dottie' me. Piano. Herself wants it in the parlor. You and Blondie over there trying to disguise himself as a patch of wallpaper." Which indeed Bernard was attempting to do.

Dottie turned her attention on Bernard's naked feet. "Did I not tell you to wear shoes?" she scolded. "Go upstairs this instant and at least put some socks on. And do something with that hair!"

Dora could have sworn she'd actually heard a whimper as he fled past and scampered up the staircase.

For some reason no one could recall, the circa 1920 upright Steinway had always occupied the narrow wall between the door to the scullery and the portal to the back hall. No one had ever shown any interest in it other than Slugger's late wife and Ron, who played it occasionally. Nevertheless, the Colonel had always insisted on its annual maintenance and tuning and Slugger continued to uphold that tradition.

Equipped with casters, the piano wasn't difficult to move but did require some delicacy in maneuvering through the hall, past the study and around the corner into the parlor. Once it was installed in the desired position, Dora set the two men to scootching around the new plushy sofa and its matching loveseat until those items achieved a pleasing configuration. Next were two overstuffed armchairs and a reproduction Windsor rocking chair with plump cushions which was given pride of place near the fireplace.

"Especially for you, Slugger!" Dora beamed. His eyes welled and she was afraid he might cry, but he didn't.

End tables and a coffee table were the last to be placed, and Dora told Slugger he was free to go have his nap... if Dottie didn't have anything else for him to do, that was. Dottie indicated that she didn't and said she would be in the scullery preparing dinner if anyone needed her.

Which left Bernard and Dora alone in the parlor.

"Can I help you do anything else?" he asked pleasantly. "Believe me, between my mom and sisters I've got plenty of experience in this sort of thing."

"Well, yes... if you really don't mind. You can help me hang drapes and put pictures up on the walls."

"Sure thing. Got a stepladder?"

"Yes... you'll find that and a toolkit in the cupboard beyond the scullery, right next to the kitchen garden door."

Bernard's enthusiasm faltered but he quickly recovered. "Okay. Be right back."

Slugger was well into a snooze in his old rocker by the stove. Bernard eased open the scullery door and slid in warily, not entirely convinced that this Under Witch would keep to her bargain with the Head Witch.

"What do you want?" Dottie barked from her workstation at the counter.

"Just coming through to get the stepladder?" he answered faintly.

"While I'm thinking about it..." She pointed her wooden spoon at him. "Don't go thinking you're going to get on my sunny side with any good smells." The air of the scullery was permeated with the delicately powdery, slightly milky scent of new baby, fresh from the bath, which Dottie was determined to dispel from her head.

Bernard reddened but didn't answer.

"Oh, go on and get your ladder."

"Yes m'am. Thank you, m'am." Bernard skirted the wall toward the opposite door, keeping as much space as possible between himself and the formidable housekeeper. After wrestling the stepladder from the closet, he exited through the kitchen garden door rather than risk going back through the scullery again. He walked all the way around to the front, entering by way of the front door.

"Don't even ask," he said to Dora just as she was about to.

"You forgot the toolkit," she pointed out.

Bernard blanched and said a bad word. "Sorry."

Dora gave him a sharp look. "Never mind. I'll get it."

She returned shortly with the box of tools and they set to work.

**Field Journal: Tuesday, September 3, 1974 • 3:00pm**

**Atmospheric conditions:** Rain over but still overcast.

**Immediate location:** Downstairs bathroom.

**General:** Wasn't expecting to get much accomplished today but it's moving right along. Re tackroom discussion: apparently no one's ever taken the time to sit down with either Steve or Ron just to talk about life, the universe, and everything. A shame they've worked together so long and still don't seem to know much about each other—or care. Now it looks like I'll have a couple of hours at least with Dora all to myself. How fortuitous!

**Technical issues: **No current aberrations.

**Observations:** A fine kettle of fish! This was supposed to be a secret mission—get in, do my thing, get out. Now half of Yorkshire knows I'm here and why. Publish it on WikiLeaks already!

The Witch threw me for a loop. First she scares me out of a year's growth (and I don't have one to spare) and now she wants to help? What's up with that? I understand and accept her repugnance for my species, but active cooperation from one of the sisterhood? I have no choice but to trust she'll keep her promise. It's all fine and good to lecture someone else on learning to trust, but not so easy to do when you're scared spitless yourself. Steve and I have that in common, it seems.

**Plans:** Formulating on the fly.

**Notes to self:** Had forgotten how intimidating life can seem when you're that young and don't have a firm footing in the world. The future can look pretty grim and scary.

CHAPTER 10: _**"Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast" **_• White Queen

**Sandwiched between the front entrance foyer and the office**, the long unused parlor sported two sets of tall double windows facing east.

"What is it with you and Mrs. Doyle?" Dora asked, looking up to where Bernard was ensconced at the top of the ladder affixing replacement drapery hardware.

"That woman has the Sight," he replied evenly."

"The what?"

"Back home we'd call her a _'quatre yeux'_."

"Four eyes? What does that mean? She doesn't wear spectacles." Dora's schoolroom French was rusty but serviceable.

"She has the Eye, I'm telling you. Hand me that Phillips screwdriver, would you?"

"Bernard... there's no such thing as an evil eye... that's just an old wives' tale."

"I'm not saying she's evil, Dora... just that she's got powers you can't even dream of. And she doesn't like me."

"Don't be silly... she's a dear lady who's sold milk and butter and eggs since... long before I came along. And she's a perfectly ordinary woman with four ordinary children."

"I know a conjure woman when I see one. I need the needlenose pliers—no, not that one... the other one.

"You mean like... a witch?" Dora asked incredulously. "Dottie Doyle is no more a witch than I am and anyway I don't believe in them."

Bernard descended the ladder and moved it to the other side of the window. "You don't believe in magic? You sure about that?

Dora followed with the toolbox. "Not really... no."

"Is that why you chuck a bucket of water on that dead tree every day, expecting it to come back to life. I've seen you talking to it and asked Slugger what all that was about."

Dora was nonplussed. Bernard had just pointed out her not-so-secret belief that a dream could come true if you really wanted it to.

"Well... I... it might... it doesn't hurt to try. You're a very strange man, Bernard. I just don't know what to make of you."

Bernard shrugged and the ladder trembled precariously. "Not so strange. There's plenty others like me and your Mrs. Doyle all around you... you're just not aware of them. The world would be a very dull place if everyone were normal."

"Are you implying I'm dull?"

"Not at all... I'm just saying you should keep an open mind where the differently abled are concerned. People aren't always what they seem. Phillips again, please."

"So what if I have dreams... and believe in some of them. People make wishes all the time. Sometimes they do come true?" She paused... "Sometimes they just... don't."

Time to move to the next pair of windows. Bernard continued talking as he worked, quietly but intently, as if the subject were as ordinary as the weather or the merits of local politics.

"Have you ever asked yourself why—over the entire recorded course of human history—stories of the supernatural and paranormal keep cropping up? That would include some pretty tall tales in the Bible, too... stuff that millions of people take literally... like miracles. Did you ever consider that there might be some basis in fact for people to keep believing these stories?"

"No... I've never thought about it that way."

"And what about the popularity of science fiction and fantasy fiction literature? Where do you think all that comes from?"

"I don't know. I suppose... people make it up? It's not real..."

" '_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'_ " Bernard quoted. "Recognize that?"

"Yes, of course. Shakespeare, in 'Hamlet'."

"Try this one... _'Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.' _I need the hammer and one of those long nails."

Dora handed up the items. "Um... that would be the White Queen in 'Alice in Wonderland'?"

"Correct. So then, what's your position on fairy tales?"

"What do you mean, my position? They're stories for children."

"C.S. Lewis wrote _'Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again'_. What do you think he meant by that?"

"I have no idea."

"Maybe he was saying dreams come true if you want them to."

Dora was shaken... now he was quoting _her!_ But how could he have known?

An insular child both by nature and circumstance, Dora had always found solace and escape in literature, particularly—in her very young years—fanciful tales of the fey world, where fairies and elves brought joy into the lives of sad children. Dora had believed she would find happiness and a purpose in life at Follyfoot and indeed she had—except for her unresolved relationship with Steve. An absurd notion began to unfold in her consciousness that whoever, whatever Bernard was—in some way she wasn't necessarily meant to understand—he really was here because of her, for her. But lacking Slugger's rustic handed-down credence in malevolent otherworldly beings, Dora wasn't frightened or repelled by the suspicion that this singular person might not be quite as ordinarily human as he appeared to be. She was, however, bewildered. What her heart wanted to believe, her rational mind was rejecting with prejudice.

"You know, there's not all that much difference between religion and the supernatural. If you believe in angels and demons, you may as well believe in witches and fairies. Hedge your bets, so to speak," Bernard remarked casually as he moved the ladder to the last window.

In her formative years, Dora had attended church services regularly with her parents before they had embarked on their overseas travels, and later as required at the succession of boarding schools she had attended. But in her time at Follyfoot she had eschewed church attendance except for the occasional wedding, funeral or baptism. Since coming here she had witnessed such acts and results of violence, abuse and neglect perpetrated on both man and beast that she had many times doubted the existence of a benevolent supreme being. How could there be, when such horrors were allowed to happen? But all in all she still maintained a tenuous belief in a higher power and divine intervention... and, to a lesser degree, in angels of mercy. Had she not wished only a few days ago for her own guardian angel to show her the way, admittedly for a selfish cause?

She formulated her reply carefully. "I'm not sure what I believe anymore."

"'_Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.'_ Hebrews 13:1-2," Bernard quoted soberly.

Bernard in no way fit Dora's mental image of a celestial being... still, goosebumps popped up on her arms.

With the hardware in place, they adjourned to the dining room where the new drapes had been carefully laid flat across the table after ironing to prevent them from becoming creased. Dora showed Bernard how to install the hooks and they set to work.

"**Elayne... my American friend that I mentioned yesterday?** She says she's a 'trophy wife' and then laughs about it, but I don't know what that means... do you?" Back to the parlor and back up the ladder, with Dora relaying the panels up to be hung.

"Let me take a wild guess here... he's old, homely and stinking rich... and she's young, blonde and gorgeous with a great set of kn... a nice figure."

"Oh... have you already met them, then?"

"No, Dora. I have not met them."

"Then I don't get it..."

"It's an arrangement... she's in it for the money and the cachet of being Lady Gotrocks, and he gets to show off the arm candy and be the envy of all his buddies."

"Arm candy?"

"Arm candy is a girl by your side who's so beautiful everyone else wonders why on earth she'd want to sleep with you."

"Oh," she said, and then blushing as understanding seeped in, "OH!"

Bernard was laughing. "Dora, Dora, Dora... you're so enchantingly lovely and so delightfully naive."

"Excuse me? I am not... well, I suppose I am naive in some ways." Bernard had noticed how she had this way of demurely lowering her face and eyes when she was uncertain or embarrassed... as she was doing now.

"And... you really think I'm pretty?" She asked shyly.

"More than just pretty... you have the kind of beauty that radiates from the inside out."

"Thank you... that's... um... very kind of you to say so."

"_De nada_," Bernard said, recognizing a prime opportunity to introduce his approach. "Pity Steve can't see what a treasure he's got right under his nose."

"Steve's not interested in me that way," she retorted.

"What? Are you kidding? Sure he is. He's just more commitment-phobic than most men."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do. He's jealous as hell, too... but too scared to do anything about it. Jealousy and fear are pretty potent emotions."

"Steve's not afraid of anything."

"Oh sweetie... you're _so_ wrong about that. Cat's been running against the wind so long he's forgotten how to live any other way."

"What makes you think so? You don't know us... or anything about us," Dora said, fetching the next panel.

"I know enough... from what little he's said about himself, from listening to Ron, and from watching him when he's around you. Steve's in love with you, Dora... Ray Charles could see that. But he's been too burned to let himself get close to anyone, and he's too scared to trust in love. That's why he's so angry all the time... it's an anger born of frustration. He knows what he wants but he doesn't know how to get it."

"Thank you for that not at all helpful bit of information," Dora snapped.

"Then there's you... lost in love yourself and too hidebound in tradition to lay it on the line for him."

"And just how did you arrive at _that_ determination?"

"The same way... look me in the eye and tell me it's not true," Bernard challenged.

When Dora clammed up, pointedly ignoring him, he started humming the tune to a popular song from a decade ago—a little before her time but she remembered it well, and when he started singing the words, she giggled and joined in...

'_Wishin' and hopin' and thinkin' and prayin',_

_Plannin' and dreamin' each night of his charms..._

_That won't get you into his arms...'_

When they'd finished they were both laughing. "Oh alright... you win! I am... I was... but I'm not so sure anymore... after three years of... nothing..."

"Seems to me what you two have is a classic failure to communicate."

"I'm well aware of that. I've tried talking to him but it hasn't got me anywhere."

"Maybe you've been using the wrong words, Dora. All it takes is three little ones. I think you know what they are. They've been known to move mountains," Bernard said gently.

"I am not about to make a fool of myself," she asserted.

"He probably feels the same way. So there you both are... going nowhere. Maybe it's time to try another approach, then.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you shot me down when I suggested _you_ ask _him_ out on a date. Maybe you should try being a little more physical?"

"If you mean throwing myself naked into his bed like some common chippy, that's just not on!" Dora responded with disgust.

"Maybe a little _less_ physical than that," Bernard chuckled. "I've noticed you're not shy about going to Slugger for a hug when you need one... or when you think he needs one, or giving him a buss on the cheek. But all I've seen you and Steve do is maybe put a hand on a shoulder or an arm. If anyone around here needs cheering up, it's him. Would it kill you to put your arm around him once in a while and give him a little squeeze?"

"Why are we even discussing this? It isn't any of your concern!"

Bernard adjusted the final panel and descended the ladder, leaning against it. "Wrong again. It most definitely is my concern. It's why I'm here... to help. Just like I said."

"Excuse me... I thought you came to help take care of horses and shovel manure."

"Yeah... well... I needed a plausible cover story and that was the most convenient one. What I'm really here to do is bring you and Steve together."

Dora took a few steps backward away from him. "I'm beginning to believe, Bernard, that you're some kind of lunatic that I should send packing soonest. You're beginning to worry me." She wasn't scared, really, but made an exaggerated effort to appear as though she were.

"Nothing to be frightened about. I'm just an ordinary guy with a few unusual abilities and a depressingly difficult mission. All you have to do—both of you—is listen and hopefully learn and then act on what you've learned. Trust me... your future—and his—depends on whether your relationship can be salvaged or if you decide to go your separate ways. I can't make decisions for either of you... that's something you have to do for yourselves. I'm just trying to give you something to work with toward resolution."

Dora studied the completely earnest face. "You're serious, aren't you?

Bernard shook his head. "Absolutely. Sometimes it helps to unload on a sympathetic but impartial ear. Sometimes you're just too close to a situation to get the overall picture that's clearly obvious to someone outside it.. someone who's been there, done that, and can provide ideas on alternative solutions."

"If I felt like confiding my feelings to someone else it would be to another woman... not a man, especially a strange man!"

"Well, sure... if there's another woman around you feel comfortable with, go for it. On the other hand, did you ever consider there might be some value in hearing a man's point of view?"

"No. I guess not."

"Will you at least think it over for a day or so? Then, if you tell me to leave, I will. Keep in mind I'll be talking to Steve, too... but I'm not passing along any confidences from either one of you."

Dora indeed was thinking about it. Bernard most certainly was not, as he purported to be, an 'ordinary guy.' Exactly what he was she didn't know and wasn't sure she wanted to know. The scent of apples in the room was especially heady at that moment.

"Give me your hands," she demanded, holding out hers.

"What?" Bernard was caught offguard.

"Just do it."

Cautiously he extended both hands and she clasped them firmly, never taking her eyes off his. Almost at once a mildly euphoric tingling sensation started in her palms and crept up her arms until it engulfed her whole body.

Mrs. Doyle chose that moment to poke her head in the door. Her eyes fastened on the joined hands with undisguised disapproval. "What's going on here, then? I thought I heard..."

Bernard hastily extricated himself. "Singing... we were just singing!"

"Just talking!" Dora piped up brightly.

Dottie sniffed loudly and withdrew.

"What was all that about?" Bernard inquired softly.

Dora nibbled her lower lip and looked faintly embarrassed. "When you were holding my hand Sunday night... I thought I felt something, and then I thought, 'Oh it must only be static electricity... but it wasn't, was it?"

"No. It wasn't."

Dora paused but no further explanation was forthcoming.

"For the sake of argument, say I _do_ accept that there's something otherworldly about you... who else knows about this... about you?"

"Mrs. Doyle knows... she knew right away. She really is a witch, you know. And Slugger... 'cause she told him. As far as I know, that's all. Probably would be best to keep it to ourselves, though, and not share with Steve."

"You're right about that," Dora agreed. "He'd be furious if he thought he was being manipulated. Anyway, this whole discussion is hypothetical... isn't it? It's not as if you and Mrs. Doyle are planning to whip up a love potion and add it to his soup... or sprinkle fairy dust on him while he's sleeping... or are you?" she added, dripping sarcasm.

"Those are passé, I'm afraid. Nowadays we aim for psychological mediation—though there's still plenty of mystery in the world that science can't find an explanation for. So no, it's not hypothetical at all."

Dora just rolled her eyes.

**Back to reality.** With all these disclosures percolating on a mental back burner and the bones of the room in place, Dora declared they were ready to apply the finishing touches.

From the outset of Dora's plans to renovate the farmhouse she'd pored over editions of _Ideal Home_ and _Country Life_ with vague notions of what she wanted to achieve in the way of decor, especially in the parlor—not as spartan or utilitarian as Scandinavian modern, not overly fussy and chintzy, not drearily formal. She wanted restful, neutral earth tones with mood-enhancing bright accents, a few eye-pleasing objets d'art, attractive wall hangings. Above all, the room had to be cheerful and inviting, a place to relax with comfortable seating for all. To that end she had been accumulating accoutrements for months, storing them in the dining room until needed. As the items were retrieved from their various packing crates, boxes and shopping bags, Dora directed Bernard where to place them.

Scenic landscapes replaced archaic hunting prints. Occasional tables and reading lamps were strategically placed. Colorful oversize cushions were distributed. The fireplace was swept out and logs laid, the woodbox was filled with fragrant sticks of cherry and hazelwood. An assortment of candles in various sizes and colors occupied mismatched hurricane lamps adorning the mantel. Books, magazines and Ron's comics were stacked neatly in rush baskets within easy reach, and his guitar rested on the bench in front of the piano which had been polished within an inch of its life.

"What do you think?" Dora asked her co-worker, stepping back and sighing with satisfaction.

"Perfect!" Bernard attested. "It's not a parlor anymore. A parlor is somewhere you take visitors to impress 'em. Back home we'd call this the family room, because it's set up for the family to enjoy in its together-time. Except..."

"Except what?"

"Over there..." Bernard gestured to an expanse of wall between two tall windows. "We'd probaby have our entertainment center."

"Entertainment center? What's that?"

"You know... a shelf unit where you'd set up your wide-screen TV, your VCR and DVR, your Nintendo and CD player, your..."

Dora was regarding him blankly.

"What I mean is..." Bernard recovered promptly. "Your television and record player and records and maybe a radio. I notice you don't have a television."

"Oh... well, perhaps it's time we acquire one." _Americans really do speak a different language_, Dora was thinking.

Hours had flown by while Dora and Bernard had been busy in the 'family room'. Steve and Ron had returned some time ago and gone ahead with the evening chores, seeing they wouldn't be getting any assistance any time soon. Dottie and Slugger had busied themselves with supper preparations.

Dottie had business in the village, but before she left she summoned Dora to accompany her out to her car. Bernard had gone upstairs on a personal errand.

"Dora... if I may speak freely?"

"Of course, Dottie. Please do. Is there a problem?"

"At the risk of sticking my beak in..."

"Yes? What is it?"

"That new boy... that Bernard... I can see you favor him..."

Dora frowned. "Well, yes. I do like him. I'm not sure why you don't..."

"It's just that..." Dottie fumbled for words. "He's not one of us... you don't know anything about him... a foreigner, an American. They have... how shall I put it?... looser morals than we're accustomed to."

"I'm not sure what you mean, Dottie."

"Just don't let him take any liberties, dear. Don't kiss him... or rather, don't let him _kiss you_."

Dora laughed. "For heaven's sake, Dottie! I've only known him five minutes... why would I want to do that?!" _What an extraordinary thing to say!_

"Just... don't!" Dottie said darkly and with that she left.

Slugger rang the bell for supper to call Steve and Ron in from the stables and Bernard from whatever he was up to upstairs.

As further evidence of the new regime in the household, the kitchen had been tidied and the faded oilcloth on the old oaken farm table hidden under a cheerful red and white checkered tablecloth decorated with three tall red candles fixed in jam jars, a bowl of apples and pears and three bottles of chianti. Five matched place settings of dazzling white stoneware crockery awaited, along with five gleaming goblets. The atmosphere was redolent of tomato, onion and garlic.

When the three young men were seated, Dora went to the scullery to assist Slugger in carrying out an enormous tureen brimming with spaghetti and meatballs in a rich, red sauce and a second smaller serving bowl with meatless sauce for their lone vegetarian. Next came a wicker basket covered with a white cloth, from which arose the tantalizing scent of fresh hot yeast rolls. With Slugger acting as sommelier, they were finally ready to eat.

Before they proceeded, Bernard stood up, holding his goblet aloft. "I'd like to say a few words..."

Ron, already reaching for the bread, groaned. Dora, serving spoon in hand, froze. Steve and Slugger looked at each other questioningly, assuming some sort of blessing—not usually practiced at this table—was forthcoming.

Bernard grinned. "Brief words, I promise—from my vast store of quotable knowledge. To Slugger, from Abraham Lincoln: _'It's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years.'_ To Steve, from Davy Crockett: _'Let the tongue speak what the heart thinks.' _To Ron, from Ecclesiastes: _'To everything there is a season... a time to keep silent, a time to speak.'_ To Dora in celebration of her upcoming twenty-first birthday, from Horace: _'Carpe diem—Seize the day!'_ And to all of us, from Spock, _'Live long and prosper.' "_ Following a puzzled interval as each examined the quotation selected for them, Bernard sat back down amidst a chorus of cheers, clapping hands and 'hear, hear's.'

With the festive, unprecedented feast consumed down to the final morsel of bread and the last pasta noodle, the five lingered at the table to polish off the dregs of the wine and allow their heavy meal to settle.

Dora declared lazily, "Slugger, we absolutely must have a modern cooker. I've already measured where the new one can fit into the scullery. Oh... don't look so alarmed... you can keep your Black Beauty! And I think we should get a television, too..."

Ron and Steve exchanged troubled looks. To what could be attributed this sudden fit of domesticity on Dora's part?

Slugger thought he knew. He and his Tiny had been living together for almost a year when she'd inexplicably transformed from happy-go-lucky maiden to goal-driven virago shortly before laying down the ultimatum: either they married or he could hit the road. This had been delivered at the conclusion of just such a household reorganization as this. And as the acknowledged surrogate father figure, Slugger knew he couldn't put off much longer having that man-to-man talk with Steve.

Apropos of nothing, Steve made a casual pronouncement. "I'm thinking of going back to school... night classes. Might go by the Adult Education Centre tomorrow evening and see what's on offer. Talk to someone about it."

There was dead silence at the table; Slugger's and Dora's mouths hung open. Bernard industriously applied his attention to his wine and Ron nodded his head up and down.

"I think I might just go along meself, mate."

"You probably think it's a dumb idea," Steve said to Dora.

"No, Steve. It's an absolutely brilliant idea... for both of you. I'm just surprised, is all... you've never mentioned an interest in doing that before."

"I never thought of it before today."

She knew without asking that Bernard had had some part to play in this and carefully avoided looking at him.

"Do you have any idea what you would like to study?"

Steve described, more or less exactly as Bernard had mentioned, courses he was interested in... all of them involving animal care.

"What about you, Ron?"

"Well... I love the horses and all, but I'd like to try something in automotives. After all, I might inherit me dad's little empire some day." Which was likely true; Stryker Senior owned several other garages besides the one in Tockwith and two used motors lots as well. And Ron was his only heir, even if neither one thought much of the other.

"I think this calls for a celebration... and a fitting opening night for our new 'family room'. The parlor is dead. Long live the 'family room'." They clinked tea mugs.

"I have an idea!" Dora announced. "After we've cleared the table and washed dishes and everyone's had their bath, let's do something different. Let's have a pajama party in our new family room!"

There was a sudden silence as everyone except Bernard goggled as if she'd just gone stark raving bonkers. Veteran of girls' pajama parties since birth, he just took it in stride.

"You mean..." Slugger began weakly, "in our nightclothes... all of us... together?"

"Well, yes... of course. That's what you do at a pajama party. It'll be perfectly decent. You can cover up with a dressing gown if you wish." She looked around at them cheerfully. "Come on, boys... it'll be fun!"

Ron groaned dramatically. "That's such a girly thing!"

"No it isn't," Dora insisted. "Boys have sleepovers with their friends, too... and they have pajama parties."

"I never did," Steve said.

"Me neither!" Ron added.

Slugger pondered the indignity of five adults sitting around in their sleepwear. "If that's what you want, Dora," he agreed doubtfully. He was a nightshirt man, himself.

Steve feared how silly he might appear, gamboling around in his pajamas, but if it would contribute to Dora's happiness, he'd do it. "I'm game if you are," he said, looking at Ron.

Ron wondered if he had any clean pajamas without holes in them. Normally, he just slept in his underwear. Additionally, he wondered if Dora owned any racy nighties, having thus far only ever seen her enshrouded in neck-to-wrist-to-ankle flannel granny gowns. Not that she'd ever appear in any racy nighties, of course. But you never know...

"I'm in," he declared. If anything, it promised to be an interesting evening.

Bernard didn't give it a second thought, having spent the better part of his life surrounded by sisters and hordes of girl cousins wearing every conceivable form of sleeping attire. He usually slept in the buff but for this occasion he would, naturally, be making use of the pajamas he'd been provided.

"No problem."

**Field Journal: Tuesday, September 3, 1974 • 7:30pm**

**Atmospheric conditions:** Rain (again). It sure rains a lot here.

**Immediate location:** Bedroom (getting into pajamas)

**General:** I've been lax about making any clinical notes so here goes...

I've had to revise quite a few of my initial assumptions about Steve Ross as a person. Considering his background, Steve is a surprisingly well-adjusted young adult. Very few American youths would have survived the traumatic experiences of his childhood/teenage years with the same degree of normality or ability to function in mainstream society. Yes, he retains anger issues that are occasionally overwhelming but other than that I can detect no sign of criminal recidivism. Possibly the event that earned him prison time was simply a matter of bad judgment, bad timing and bad luck. (Suggest anger management counseling?)

He has a tendency toward mean-spiritedness and makes disparaging comments re petty matters—frequently makes Dora feel bad about herself. However, he's usually aware of when he's done so and immediately tries to make amends. (Could be linked to inability to give or receive compliments? Low self-esteem?)

Aside from his trust issues, Steve is polite, articulate (more so than his lack of formal education would indicate) and generally able to socialize at an age-appropriate level of acceptable behavior.

His existential awareness is a little fuzzy but could be redirected and developed by increased exposure to other individuals with expanded philosophical/liberal views. (Push the higher education angle!)

Steve's personal habits are exemplary and I have to wonder where/from whom he learned them. He's always neat and clean and dresses conservatively. He doesn't appear to have any of the usual vices such as smoking, excessive alcohol consumption, keeping questionable company, rude or rowdy behavior, or inappropriate or unwelcome advances toward females. In fact, he's just a little bit TOO clean. (Borderline or emerging obsessive-compulsive disorder?)

Dora Maddocks is an enigma... but then, she's a woman and aren't they all! I can see now that the case file is not a fair or accurate representation of her as she is today—a young adult with admirable humanitarian qualities.

**Technical issues: **None.

**Plans:** None. Playing by ear.

**Notes to self:** Dora found the matching top for my pajamas. I look like a dork.

CHAPTER 11: _**"The greatest talents often lie buried out of sight" **_ • Titus Maccius Plautus

**Leaving a few table lamps on for ambience,** Dora had firmly shut the doors to the newly-redecorated room after she and Bernard had finished in there, saying that she wanted to save it as a surprise for the others until after supper.

Now, as they reconvened in the kitchen, everyone besides Bernard supremely self-conscious and avoiding each other's eyes, Dora led the way down the hall and threw open the door to reveal her creation.

"Ta-da!"

Slugger, Ron and Steve trooped in single file and took stock of the room in wonderment. The room appeared even cozier than Dora had envisioned it by daylight, especially with the susurrus of raindrops pelting the panes beyond the drawn curtains. Bernard's keen eyes caught Slugger paying particular attention to the paintings, with a slight intake of breath and a darted look of recognition. But the older man made no comment so neither did Bernard. None of the others noticed.

Slugger got a nice fire blazing in no time and each one quickly claimed a spot in which to burrow. Dora, accompanied by Steve, went to fetch dessert and coffee after admonishing Slugger to remain seated. "You're off duty now... we'll serve you for a change."

The raspberry tarts with clotted cream were absolutely delicious. Whatever his deficiencies in other areas of the culinary arts, Slugger was an excellent baker, his bread alone testament to that. With dessert consumed, a peaceful atmosphere permeated the room.

Bernard went over to the piano and lifted the keyboard cover. "This thing been tuned lately?"

"Just last month," Slugger replied from his rocker with a holey stocking in one hand and a sock egg in the other. "For Ron, you see. Go on, boy, play something nice for us."

"Nah. Maybe later." Ron was already comfortably slouched with his feet on an ottoman and a comic book deployed in front of his face. Steve had picked up the latest newspaper and wedged himself among cushions at one corner of the sofa, feet propped on the coffee table. Dora curled up at the other end with her feet neatly tucked under her, watching Bernard expectantly.

Bernard glanced around. "Anybody mind...?"

"Help yourself," Slugger grunted.

Removing the guitar from the bench and standing it in a corner, Bernard seated himself and ran several experimental chords on the keyboard, playing a few bars of something soft and waltzy, before turning around. A new feather, silvery gray, shined opalescent in the muted light of the table lamps. "I'm a little rusty. Dora, you want to help me out here?"

A Mona Lisa smile tugged at her mouth. "Me? Oh no... it's been years... I'm sure I don't remember anything."

"Sure you do... it's like riding a bicycle. You never forget."

Steve had dropped his newspaper, looking at her in amazement. "I didn't know you played... you never said!"

"I don't... that is, I haven't... not since school, anyway."

"How come _you_ knew?" Steve demanded of Bernard. "Ron's the only one ever touched the piano as long as I've been here."

"Any finishing school worth its salt includes music in its curriculum. Maybe you should have asked her more about her life before Follyfoot," Bernard countered in his husky voice. He scooted over on the bench and patted the empty space. "Come on, _ma chérie_. Give it a try, at least."

She laughed and got up, going to sit beside him. "Oh alright. Don't blame me if they go howling from the room."

"I'll start us off with some Chopin. Just close your eyes and visualize the keys." He played some opening bars then paused, "Okay, now you take the left hand and I'll take the right." Starting over, the result was a little discordant at first but seemed to come together after a minute or so.

"You take over now."

He pulled his hand away and she finished the piece, not too badly.

Her eyes widened. "I do remember! You're right! That was always one of my favorites," Dora exulted.

"Me too, but I don't remember which one it is..." Bernard trailed off, waiting.

From behind the comic book came the muffled declaration: "Nocturne No. 20 in C Sharp Minor." Ron dropped the comic in his lap, his mouth a round "O" of indignation. "Oi! You tricked me!"

And from Steve, "Ron? You? Classical music? I've heard it all now!"

"How do you think I learned, dummy? Me mum made me take lessons, didnt' she?" he said irritably. "Don't go tellin' anyone, either. I'd be the laughingstock over to the pub."

Steve indeed was laughing. "Oh, this is rich!"

"I wonder what else we don't know about Ron?" Dora remarked.

"Nothin' you need to know about!"

She slid off the bench and resumed her position on the sofa. "It's Ron's turn!"

Bernard picked up the guitar from its resting place and presented it to Ron. "Bet you do classical guitar, too... right?" he challenged, returning to the bench.

"Can... but ain't in a while," Ron grumbled, positioning the instrument anyway. "What didja have in mind?"

"How about... the adagio from 'Aranjuez'?"

For the next five minutes the audience of three was spellbound as the duo filled the room with the haunting strains of Joaquín Rodrigo's best-known and beloved concerto. As the last notes faded Bernard abruptly swung into John Denver's 'Annie's Song', currently Number Three in the top forty pops. Ron picked it up without missing a beat and the two of them harmonized the lyrics with Steve and Dora joining in after the first stanza. More popular contemporary tunes followed, with Ron leading vocals and the others following along with what lyrics they could recall.

A round of enthusiastic applause broke out as Ron stood to return the guitar to its niche. Dora leaped off the couch and enveloped him in a hug, exclaiming, "Ron! I had _no_ idea! That was wonderful!" Ron blushed, simultaneously pleased and embarrassed. She wrapped her arms around Bernard's neck from behind. "And you, too!"

From his corner, Steve fought off a surge of envy with the internal recognition of an admirable performance well-deserving of Dora's approbation. "Is there is anything you _can't_ do?" he asked sarcastically.

Bernard turned around on the bench to face him. "Sure. Lots of things. You never know until you try what you're capable of. The older I get the more I learn to face my limitations... but that doesn't stop me from trying something new because I learn as much—sometimes more—from my failures as from my successes. Discovering new facets of your own personality is just as exciting as discovering something new and wonderful about the people you love. I'm betting you don't know each other as well as you think you do."

"And I'm betting you're wrong, mate." Steve challenged. "I think we already know everything there is to know about each other."

"Ya think? Well... let's see... Most everyone possesses some kind of untapped talent or ability that they may not even know they have, something that it takes an impartial observer to spot—someone like me, for instance. Or they know but choose to keep it to themselves."

"Yeah? Like what?" Steve insisted. "What kind of hidden ability do _you_ have?"

"Oh... you'd be surprised. You'd be very surprised." Then, meeting Slugger's penetrating stare, "Or maybe not."

"What about us, Bernard?" Dora queried. "What do you see in us?"

Bernard winked at her and grinned impishly, closing one eye and laying a finger aside his nose

"Well... let's see. Ron's a musician and singer. Secretly he'd rather be a rock star or actor than a mechanic. He'd make a pretty good actor since he's got great comedic timing and a gift for mimicry."

"Actually," Ron said, nodding his head in agreement, "I've thought about acting. Wouldn't know where to begin, though."

"You could start by auditioning with a local amateur theatre. They're always hungry for new players."

"What about me?" Steve piped up. "Could I be an actor, too?"

Bernard regarded him thoughtfully. "Possibly. But I predict you'll find your fortune in your voice. I'd describe it as 'mellifluous'... and that could take you far in public speaking and lecturing..."

Steve laughed. "I can't see myself standing up in front of a crowd, blathering like a fool."

"There's other venues... there's a need for narrators and voiceover specialists in the film and television industries. And audiobooks... that's another coming thing. Spoken books on records and cassette tapes for the blind or other people who can't read for whatever reason. And radio plays—I understand those're very popular over here."

"And me?" Dora asked in a small voice. "Do I have any sort of special gifts?"

"Absolutely. The name 'Dora' means gift and that's exactly what you'll be to the man smart enough to marry you. Yours will be the hardest job of all with the best rewards of all—wife and mother to an exceptional family who'll all think you hung the moon. Everyone for miles around will know you by your good works and look up to you as _the_ role model of the community."

"Oh." She was hoping for something a little more glamorous but she supposed that would do. It was, after all, what she really _did_ want—a quiet life in a home of her own, a _normal_ life, surrounded by a loving family and a support network of understanding friends.

"As for Slugger..." Slugger had not participated up to the point, but he raised up his head from his darning when he heard his own name mentioned. They all looked to Bernard for another off-the-wall exposé.

"Dora, would you mind telling again—for the others' benefit—about these paintings on the walls?"

"Oh... er... When I was cleaning out the bedroom I'm using now—before the contractors came, I found a box of rolled-up canvases hidden in the bottom of an old clothes press. They fit so nicely with the new decor, I took them to the framers to have them cleaned and mounted. I meant to mention that, Slugger, and ask if you knew anything about them but I forgot. I hope it's all right to use them... they are lovely, don't you think? So much better than dogs with dead birds in their mouths. There's even one of our farmhouse and the two original barns."

Slugger's eyes darted from one to the next of the six paintings gracing the walls but still he said nothing.

Bernard prompted. "Did you notice they're all done by the same artist between 1952 and 1962... and initialed by that artist?"

"Yes... EAJ... but who could that be?"

"When I was installing the hanging hardware I noticed an inscription on the back of one... faded and hard to read... 'For Tiny with all my love, Edward Arthur Jones.' "

There was a collective gasp of astonishment followed by a gabble of startled comments.

"Slugger... we never knew... "

"Why didn't you ever tell us...?"

"Amazing!"

"Why did you hide these away all these years...?"

Slugger had set aside his needlework and clasped his hands in his lap, sighing heavily. When he looked up at them, tears rolled down his lined cheeks.

"When I couldn't box no more, it was a long while before I was fit to do anything else. The Colonel, God rest his soul, set me and Tiny up in this house. She worked with the strength of two to keep us up and bought me my first set of paints to keep me busy so's I wouldn't feel sorry for myself. When she passed, I rolled 'em up and put 'em away because the pitchers reminded me of what I'd lost." Slugger choked up a little.

Dora was appalled. "Oh Slugger... I am so, so sorry... I'll take them down immediately!"

But Slugger smiled. "I never thought I'd want to see them pitchers again but... it's been twelve years and I'm long past grieving. I'm that pleased that you chose my daubs to hang in here and I'd be even more pleased if they stayed right where they are."

Shedding her own tears, Dora flung herself on Slugger while Steve, on his corner of the sofa, wished he had some remarkable talent that would bring forth such an emotional display... or that he was capable of expressing such deep feelings over Dora's accomplishments.

The evening continued with more music, more laughter and much animated conversation, all embarrassment over the pajamas forgotten. Before they knew it, eleven o'clock—way past everyone's normal bedtime—had come and gone. Dora's last conscious thought as she drifted off to sleep was not of Steve... but of Bernard and the changes his arrival at Follyfoot had wrought in just three days. What if... just what if... _he was the one...?_

**Field Journal: Tuesday, September 3, 1974 • Midnight**

**Immediate location:** Bedroom

**General:** As team building exercises go, this evening was outstanding... and it was all Dora's doing—along with a little bit of inside info, a soupçon of exhibitionism and some incredibly cunning intuition on my part, of course. They each have many new facets about one another to consider and I fervently hope this leads to a deeper understanding of and appreciation for their 'family' dynamics. Pretty sure an evening like this one isn't a normal occurrence around here. Pajama party for grown-ups—what a superb idea! I would never have thought of that.

Dinner was excellent... best sketti sauce I've ever thrown a lip over. The Witch is an amazing cook (but then, most of them are). And Slugger's yeast rolls are to die for! The amount of wine we put away may have been a trifle immoderate but no one's yakked anything up yet so I guess we weren't too overserved.

Dora' certainly has an eye for tastefully modern interior decor. I personally found the end result quite appealing. Whatever low self-esteem/self-confidence/self-image issues the girl may have, they weren't on display tonight. She seemed really happy and playful.

Steve was obviously very surprised at just about everything. Evidently he just thinks he knows this woman, thinks she's just all emotion and no substance. A dreamer. Is it possible he's never asked her what she wants out of life, what her expectations are? Conversely, has she ever asked him? Do they ever have serious conversations and if so, what about?

Slugger was being very quiet and watching me like a cat sitting outside a mousehole. Ron puts on a good show of being a bad boy but isn't quite the class clown I originally thought. Too bad the case histories on those two weren't more comprehensive. Would very much like to know their stories and what compels them to behave as they do.

Also... and this is very hard for me to admit, considering my attitude toward witches in general and their traditional loathing of my kind... the only thing that could have made the evening any better would have been if the Witch had been there. I suppose I should start referring to her by name rather than occupation. She seems to be a very practical lady and well-informed. Oh... and the missing Hazel person—too bad she couldn't have been there. I don't know anything about her but she would have completed the family circle.

**Technical issue:** Still holding with no problems.

**Plan:** Too full of sketti and too sleepy to think on this tonight.

**PART FIVE • WEDNESDAY**

CHAPTER 12: _**"Believe and act as if it were impossible to fail" **_• Charles F. Kettering

**As before, the rains were over before daybreak** and Slugger smiled as dawn brightened the window where he was watering the potted geraniums on the sill and revisiting the previous evening's soirée. He was feeling fairly good this morning with only a few minor arthritic twinges in knees and elbows reminding him of his age. It wasn't yet six o'clock when Bernard sauntered into the kitchen, yawning and pulling on a tee shirt and clearly in a sunny mood himself.

In the clear morning light it was difficult to equate Dottie's extravagant claims with this seemingly ordinary young man with his sleepy green eyes and tousled hair. True, that feather provided a jarring note but it was no more gaudy than some of Ron's furred, fringed and riotously multi-colored vests. He could easily have passed for any local farmboy except for his accent and obviously duskier skin tones. Slugger poured tea them both.

"Good morning, Slugger. Thanks."

"Yer welcome." Slugger glanced at the clock on the mantel; they had fifteen minutes before the alarm clocks upstairs would begin awakening the rest of the crowd.

"That were a nice party last night," he offered. "Can't remember when we've had as much fun around here. Was that yer idea?"

"Oh no... strictly Dora's, although I might've provided a little instigation. It's all too easy for a family to fall into a rut of chores and business and forget life is for living _and_ enjoying."

"We're not really a family, yer know... not related by blood or anything, even though I do think of them as my children."

"You function as a family, and that's what counts... all you're lacking is a mother figure and it's kinda looking like you've just acquired one." Bernard nodded significantly toward the window where Dottie's Hillman was rolling into view.

"Oh... er... aye..." Slugger blushed for no apparent reason and jumped up to hold the door open.

Bernard was studiously pulling on his socks and boots when Dottie swept in.

"Any progress?" she queried without preamble, thumping her carryall onto the table and herself into a chair opposite Bernard while Slugger hurriedly prepped a third mug and slid it over. "Thank you, Edward."

"Good morning to you, too, Mrs. Doyle."

"Call me Dottie. And you'd better get busy. Time and tide, you know..."

"I know! I know!" Bernard barked.

Taking exception to his tone, Dottie launched into a harangue that quickly dispelled any latent afterparty good humor Bernard might have been enjoying, concluding with a reminder that only four more days—including today—remained in which to accomplish his task. Furthermore, Plan A—a no-go from the get-go in her opinion—did not appear to be yielding quantifiable results at a significant rate. Her rant subsided only when the faint ringing of alarm clocks going off upstairs signaled the imminent arrival downstairs of the parties under discussion.

Bernard morosely slurped down the rest of his tea and excused himself to trudge out the door. "I'll be in the feed shed starting the mash." By the time Dora came out twenty minutes later he'd already mixed up rations exactly as she had shown him and had a row of buckets ready to be distributed.

Dora instantly noted that Bernard seemed dispirited about something but didn't was sparse as they joined Steve and Ron to finish feeding. Steve and Dora went off with the horses to the pasture, leaving Ron and Bernard to put away the barrows, tubs and tools and start the mucking out. During breakfast Bernard kept his nose in his cereal bowl and didn't join in the usual breakfast banter.

"What's wrong with him?" Ron asked eventually, pointing with his fork.

Dora chuckled. "He thinks Mrs. Doyle's a witch out to get him. But then, he also claims he's from the future."

Naturally, Ron couldn't let that one go by. "Flew in on the TARDIS, didja? You and yer magical horse."

"Actually, we did." Bernard looked up. "How did you know?"

"I was making a joke."

"I wasn't."

"You're a nutter!"

"So everyone keeps telling me," Bernard replied sourly and refused to say anything more for the duration of the meal until Slugger read out his to-do list.

Steve volunteered for some of the minor chores around the yard as the farrier was due for his monthly visit this morning and Steve would be needed then. Animals requiring attention had been kept back and allowed to roam the confines of the stableyard. Ron was detailed to begin construction of a byre for Queen Maude adjacent to the donkey pen. Dora went to her boarders without inviting Bernard to join her, which left him at Slugger's mercy.

"We need kindling. Can you handle an axe?" Slugger asked.

"Yes sir. Just point me in the direction of the woodpile."

"North side of the house... axe is in the shed next to it."

And there went any chance of valuable face-time with either Dora or Steve.

**Bernard didn't respond to the lunch bell** and Dora went to fetch him. With his shirt off, he was industriously chopping away at a fair-sized alder log and she paused to study the play of muscles under the sun-bronzed skin of his arms and back. Not as classically proportioned as Steve nor as whipcord thin as Ron, but very nicely put together and easy on the eyes all the same. The early afternoon sun glinted off his riotous hair and a blue-black feather that had formerly graced a raven's tail. He'd been hard at it since breakfast and a considerable pile of kindling was already neatly stacked inside the woodshed. She walked around into his line of sight and he put the axe down.

"Didn't you hear the bell? It's lunchtime."

"No." Bernard grabbed his shirt off the woodpile and wiped his face with it before putting it on.

"Slugger and Mrs. Doyle have gone shopping. We're having leftover stew." Dora screwed up her face and made a gagging gesture with a forefinger.

"That bad?"

"It's enough to turn anyone into a vegetarian who isn't one already."

When Bernard emerged from the lav to join the others at table, Steve and Ron were scowling and using chunks of bread to prod at glutinous gray lumps squatting on their plates, swimming in gelatinous mud. Bernard leaned over to investigate the contents of the soup pot on the table and recoiled. Dora reached around to pull another smaller pot out of the warming oven.

"Slugger says there no meat in this... whatever it is." It looked and smelled exactly the same as what was in the larger pot. Bernard shuddered. He noticed Dora had buttered several large doorsteps of bread and was applying a secondary layer of an unidentifiable gooey brown substance from a glass jar.

"What's that?"

"Marmite. Want to try some?"

"What is it?"

"No one knows for sure, but I don't think there's any meat in it."

"I'll pass. Do you have any peanut butter?"

Dora slid over the platter of sliced bread and the butter dish, followed by a jam jar. "No, sorry... I think there's some Nutella in the pantry."

"And that would be?"

"Something like peanut butter but made with hazelnuts and chocolate."

"I guess I'll stick with jelly or jam," Bernard sighed. On the other side of the table, Steve and Ron smirked and consumed their mystery meat as Bernard made do with a butter and plum jam butty and an apple from the sideboard. The telephone rang in the office and Dora went to answer it.

"That was Lady Butler," Dora informed them, returning to the table. "She's got two new horses on trial and wants us to have a look at them to see if they might be show jumping prospects."

"Where'd they come from?" Steve asked.

"They're two-year-olds, Thoroughbreds from Blair Statham's... evidently they didn't make the cut for racing so he's offering them on the cheap. Will you have time to ride over with me this afternoon since Slugger and Mrs. D have the Rover?"

"Can't," he said, "Farrier's late already and I have to be here."

"Right, I forgot!" Dora smacked her own forehead. "What about you, Ron?"

"Sorry, luv. The man's coming with the car today and I should check it out before accepting delivery. Make sure everything got fixed that was supposed to be."

She sighed with irritation and turned to Bernard. "I guess that leaves you. Feel like going for a ride? We need to exercise some of those boarders anyway."

"I guess so." He didn't seem overly enthusiastic, though.

**With leads in hand, Dora pointed out an undistinguished blue roan gelding** and a bloodbay with a zigzag blaze. "Pepper and Flash could do with a little cross-country work. Steve mentioned your problem with saddles but I don't see how you'll manage without one. It's four miles to Elle's place and there's walls and watercourses along the way."

"I'll manage," Bernard said easily.

The two horses came along peacefully and Bernard helped Dora secure the saddle on the bay, then gave her a leg up. She watched with curiosity but no comment as he went through his bonding ritual with the roan. Steve had also described this and Bernard's mounting technique.

"We try to alternate the horses when we work them in pairs," she explained as they rode south along the farm track. "We don't want them becoming dependent on each other's presence because then they tend to become intractable when separated."

"Makes sense."

The south side of the big lake was fringed by a thin strip of trees and beyond were great expanses of meadow and rolling hills. Dora gestured toward that as they rode side by side, saying, "Almost everything you can see is part of the Harewood estate; the rest belongs to Sir Hughes Butler. Harewood allows access to the general public. Sir Hughes doesn't but he was a personal friend of my uncle's so we have special permission to cross his property and do some of our schooling there. We... Steve and I... feel these two are ready to be introduced to the kinds of conditions they'll encounter in the field. The terrain here is diverse with a lot of natural obstacles and bits of old drystone walls and such. We'll have a warmup first."

They turned off the track into the practice jump area and Dora indicated that she'd go first. Bernard's task would be to replace any rails that Flash knocked down. Even at a restrained canter it was clear the bay had potential, collecting and tucking nicely if not doing so well with hanging and recovery. After three rounds she dismounted and tied Flash to a tree as Bernard untied Pepper and once again leaped up onto the horse's back.

"I'm not so sure this is a good idea..."

"Don't worry about it."

"Wait a minute... there's something you should know about him..."

Flash and Pepper, though matched in size and general conformation, unfortunately did not share equal talents, Dora commented ruefully. The roan was sulky and disinclined to follow directions. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to do much with him. He's just not trying. He balks, too, just when you least expect it and there's you with nothing to hold onto..."

"I'll be careful."

As Dora looked on, Bernard first walked his mount up to and around each hurdle, allowing the animal to examine it. When they'd made a full circuit, he scrunched forward and said something to the horse, who swiveled his head around and appeared to be listening intently. Then Pepper moved off and broke into a canter with Bernard maintaining a loose rein, both hands tightly woven into mane. Without a visible signal, Pepper approached the first jump and took it flawlessly... and the next... and the next. Dora was completely baffled by the time horse and rider concluded the third round and pulled up.

"I... I just don't understand it. Why won't he do that for me... or Steve? It's as if he's... bewitched."

Bernard shrugged. "There's nothing wrong with this horse. He's got opinions about how he wants to be ridden, is all."

"Still, he's of no use to anyone if he can only be ridden bareback."

"That's not the problem," Bernard said, "but I think you might be right about him not being suited for the field. He'll do okay in a controlled environment like a show ring but only with an experienced rider who understands him."

"What do you mean?"

"First, he doesn't like a snug rein. Second, you have to let him pick his own pace and make his own judgments about the barriers..."

"But that's nonsense!" Dora broke in, "The whole point of schooling is teaching the horse that the rider is in control."

Bernard ignored that. "Third, he's easily distracted if he feels his rider isn't feeling secure, so it's important that you feel comfortable and don't even _think_ about falling off because he'll sense that."

Dora shook her head in disbelief but clucked to Flash and they moved off briskly. They rode over a greensward blanketing several modest hillocks and threaded by small streams, not quite giving the horses their heads but letting them out just enough to see how they reacted when confronted with unfamiliar objects. At first Flash and Pepper tended to stop and inspect such overwhelming oddities as watercourses, boulders and clusters of shrubbery. But after thirty minutes of stop-and-go ambulation they had both become so blasé that they started hopping over rivulets and small embankments. The riders steered them toward more heavily vegetated areas where fallen logs abounded. Dora had to admit that Bernard was a superb horseman, crouching low on Pepper's neck and clinging with burr-like tenacity and inhuman balance.

They had reached the summit of a small grassy tor crowned with a granite outcropping. Dora signaled a halt so that they could dismount and stretch their legs for a few minutes. Bernard sprawled on his back in the grass while Dora leaned against a squat flat-topped rock.

Prior to their departure, Bernard had removed his boots and socks in the face of Dora's disapproval. She wondered if this was an American thing or just a Bernard thing. They'd had a short, sharp exchange before leaving the paddock in which she'd lost the argument over his stubborn insistence on going barefoot.

"What is it about you and shoes, Bernard?" she finally asked. "You could so easily step on something sharp and hurt yourself."

Bernard rolled over, propping himself on one elbow. "When you were a little girl, didn't you ever stand in a puddle and let mud squeeze up between your toes?"

Dora thought about it and couldn't suppress a giggle. "Yes... just the once. My governess took me for a walk in the park after a rain and I escaped from her long enough to pull off my shoes and stockings and jump into a mud puddle. I got in so much trouble for that, though."

"But do you remember how it felt?"

"Oh yes... it was delicious!"

'Have you ever stood on a sandy beach, right at the edge of the water... and felt the sand shifting under your feet as the waves receded? Almost like the sand itself was alive and caressing your feet, didn't it?"

"Yes... that's exactly how it felt!"

"And after you've had shoes or boots and socks on all day and you finally take them off... how nice it feels just to wiggle your toes..."

"I'm beginning to get the point..."

"In some cultures, the foot is considered an erogenous zone because it's so sensitive."

"Oh go on!"

"No kidding... a good footrub is the next best thing to... well... never mind that. Anyway, when someone asks you how something feels to touch, you generally think in terms of how it feels to your hands and fingers. Most people overlook the fact that there're just as many nerve receptors in their feet as in their hands. Shoes block tactile sensation. The earth itself is alive, Dora, and nature speaks to me through my hands _and_ my feet, along with the other four senses."

"I never really thought about it but it does make sense, I suppose... except, what about in winter when there's snow on the ground?"

"Why, then, I wear boots like everyone else," Bernard grinned. "I may be eccentric but I'm not an idiot."

**Dora steered them along a narrow access road** leading to the rear of the Butler estate. Several dozen or so horses of varying breeds, all in prime condition, grazed in the pastures abutting either side of the road. Four long low stone outbuildings formed a quadrangle around a cobbled yard where a bevy of young men and women were busily attending to other horses. Prominent among them, a slightly older woman grooming a massive grey hunter looked up and smiled and waved—the trophy wife in the flesh: thirtyish and indeed petite, blonde and attractive.

Dora and Bernard dismounted a short distance away and a pimply-faced teenage groom rushed up to take charge of their mounts. Dora took a few steps toward her friend and neighbor before realizing Bernard had not moved. When she turned she could see that he had assumed an expression similar to his earlier reaction to Dottie but decidely more hostile.

"Bernard... what...?" Before she could complete the question the other woman had approached them and stood with her hands on her hips, critically regarding Dora's companion.

When she spoke it was with the syrupy Cajun accent Bernard knew only too well.

"So this here's your new stablehand I been hearin' about?"

Dora flinched. Bernard's presence wasn't supposed to be common knowledge and that the news had got around so quickly was disconcerting.

"Uh... Bernard, this is..."

"Good afternoon, Elayne," Bernard said flatly.

"Good afternoon to you, too. Lookin' mighty good there... for your age."

"One might say the same for you," Bernard returned drily.

"Excuse me... do you two know each other?" Dora demanded.

"Oh... Boo and I go way back, don't we?"

"Boo?" Dora looked from one to the other.

Elayne explained. "It's a family name... 'Bernard' is sooooo stuffy, don't you agree?"

"But you said you'd never met the Butlers!" Dora addressed Bernard with confusion.

"That was before I knew who you were talking about. And she wasn't a Butler last time we met."

"How did you know he was here, Elle? No one's supposed to know..."

"Pah. You cain't poot around here without the hired help gossipin'!"

Had to have been Ron, Dora thought furiously. Telephone, telegraph, tell Ron and the whole world knows. She'd recognized several of the stableworkers as Ron's mates from the village.

"I'd like to have a closer look at that grey," Bernard said and walked around Elayne, rather rudely Dora thought.

"Feel free to take Hagrid out for a test drive, Boo," Elayne called out after him. Without turning around Bernard made a subtle but unmistakeably rude gesture with his right hand. Dora was shocked.

"What do you mean... 'Boo' is a family name?" she asked, "and how is it you know each other?"

"Related by marriage... distantly. Boo's his nickname, short for Booger." Elayne took Dora's arm, guiding her in the direction of a pair of satiny black Thoroughbred geldings tethered side by side across the courtyard. "Come take a look at these bad boys. I'm thinkin' they'll make right nice show jumpers for my stepgrandsons. But I wanted your opinion first since you'll be the one trainin' 'em."

Dora inspected the two horses and observed as Elayne had a stableboy walk each one around. She knew her friend had a keen eye for horseflesh and no need whatsoever for a contribution from Dora.

"Why do I get the feeling you've got me over here under false pretenses?"

"Who, me? But since you're here... I got these nieces visitin' from the States and we aim to go shoppin' tomorrow. I want you to come along so's we can find you somethin' special to wear to the party Sunday. My treat."

"I have a perfectly good frock in the closet..." Dora objected.

"Three years outta style, I bet. Look, I'm buyin' you a new outfit and that's that."

"But you don't have to..."

"No arguin'. We'll pick ya up around nine-ish, okay?"

Dora knew better than to try to change her friend's mind once she'd got the bit in her teeth. "You could have just telephoned, you know."

"Yeah, but I wanted to check out your new boy. How're you and him gettin' along?" Elayne jerked her head toward where Bernard was communing with the immense grey horse. Most of the stableworkers had stopped what they were doing to gawk. The animal had an evil disposition and they all feared him to some extent. Their mistress was the only one who could—or would—ride him and he was her favorite.

"Very well, actually... he's... interesting. I like him. I like him_ a lot_," she confessed. Despite her natural reticence about personal matters, Dora had alway felt at ease around Elayne and found herself saying things she would never dream of voicing to anyone else.

Elayne got a crafty look on her face. "I imagine Steve ain't happy with the competition."

"What competition? There's nothing between us..." Dora protested. "I have to admit, I'm sort of drawn to him... but..."

"But what?" Elayne prodded. "C'mon sweetie... you can tell ole Auntie Ellie. Go ahead, spit it out! No one's close enough to hear."

That much was true. By now Bernard had levitated himself onto the fearsome Hagrid's back and was trotting toward the nearest gate, which a startled stablehand swung open before leaping back out of the way. The gate opened to a large paddock ringed with practice jumps. The rest of the workers had abandoned their tasks to hang googly-eyed on the fence as the bareback rider took the huge grey gelding over competition-height barriers as casually as if stepping over cavaletti poles.

"It's the oddest thing... the other day I was doing some hard thinking about Steve's and my relationship... about how it wasn't going anywhere... and what I should do about it..."

"And?" Elayne encouraged.

"I'd just about made up my mind to give up and maybe start dating other people. I love Steve... I do... you know I do, but.. well... then Bernard came along and you wouldn't believe some of the strange tales..."

"Yup. He's a silver-tongued rascal all right," Elayne interrupted. "I suppose he's been giving you all kinds of advice on how to fix things with your man?"

Dora looked at her friend curiously. "As a matter of fact, he has... and that's what's odd. It's as if he's known both of us for years. What he says sounds logical, in a way. I just don't know if I can follow through on it. I'm not sure how to phrase this but... just how well _do_ you know each other?"

"Well enough. Why do you ask?"

"Oh... well... it seems you don't have a very high regard for each other..." Dora let the statement trail off, not wishing to give offense.

"Ain't no law says you gotta like everybody, honey. And it's true there ain't no love lost between us... but that's fambly bidness. Nothin' for you to worry your little head about."

"He's not... erm... exactly normal, is he?"

Elayne contemplated this for a few seconds, her face going quite serious and her voice very low. "No, sugar... he sure ain't and you might wanna keep that in mind. I can't imagine what he's told you about hisself, which he shouldn't a done... or even _why_ he told you, but I'll tell you this much: that boy might be a _loa_ but he's damned good at helpin' people sort out their troubles. He'll make a right fine doctor one day. I respect him for that. So when he gets to talkin' serious, it wouldn't hurt to pay attention."

Dora would have liked to continue the conversation but Bernard was bringing Elayne's big grey hunter back into the yard, scattering stablehands like chickens.

Elayne was speaking hurriedly. "One last word of advice, kiddo... his kind can charm the panties right off a gal, so whatever you do, _don't let him kiss you!"_

"Elle!" Dora pretended shock, but then she giggled. "I'll keep the warning in mind, but you forget you're talking to the oldest virgin in Yorkshire. I don't charm that easily—not that anyone's tried recently."

"I'm just sayin'..."

Watching Bernard tie the grey up to a post, no one having volunteered to take the horse from him, Dora noted that this was the second time she had received that particular admonition about her companion.

**Dora and Bernard arrived home in ample time** for afternoon tea, which was a slapdash affair hastily thrown together and eaten on the run, except for the blacksmith and his assistant, who were in no hurry at all. Steve was still occupied with bringing to the crossties one at a time each animal needing adjustments or refittings. Slugger and Dottie, returned from their shopping expedition, were shuttling back and forth between the laden LandRover and the house, putting away their purchases. Ron was tinkering with the new car that had been delivered as arranged.

Dora and Bernard had taken the shortest path home. During the ride and while they were putting their horses up, not much talk had passed between them. But Dora's mind was tallying the many ways in which Bernard was, as she had phrased it to Elayne, 'not normal.' There were what should have been an alarming number of points... the ever-changing eye color, for instance. That, at least, she had figured out for herself: green meant he was comfortable, gray meant he wasn't.

It occurred to her that while neither Steve nor Ron had heavy facial hair, both usually sprouted some measure of stubble by evening whereas Bernard's face remained unbearded at all times of the day. Unlike Steve and Ron, who walked with the rolling gait characteristic of horsemen and sailors, Bernard appeared to glide. She had noticed how, when something caught his attention, he would become still and turn his head with unblinking eyes—very much like an owl—in the direction of the sound or object of interest. And why was his presence always attended by the scent of apples?

And, of course, Dora wondered in what other aspects he might be 'not normal.' Why were two different people so insistent that she not kiss him? If simply holding his hand had such a dramatic effect on her mood, what state of mind might possibly be induced by a kiss?

At the moment, Bernard appeared to be experiencing the sort of discomfort one might expect after riding eight plus miles and several hours bareback.

"I seem to have developed a hitch in my getalong," he announced ruefully. "Think I'll go for a short walk, work out some kinks."

"Good idea," Dora agreed, suppressing a snicker and a snide comeback. "Just be back in time for chores and dinner."

"Will do," he replied and limped away.

**Field Journal: Wednesday, September 4, 1974 • 3:30pm**

**Immediate location:** Under a tree in a field, several miles from the farm.

**General:** Since it looks like I'm not gonna get a crack at Steve today, I might as well focus on Dora, who possesses a much more complex personality than I initially assessed. One thing I am sure of, though: a girl that young and attractive shouldn't be so depressed so often. But I'm not a psychiatrist so I have no idea what she has to be depressed over, nor can I help her with that problem. In my time there would be hundreds of legal medications available in the form of over the counter drugs. In a way it's a good thing she lives in an out-of-the-way locale where street drugs aren't that readily obtainable, not that it would ever occur to her to go that route.

If Dora had never come here... if her life had followed the usual path of overindulged, wealthy but aimless young women, this is what I would have prophesied: She would have drifted into a loveless marriage with some feckless fop of her own class, borne the two requisite children to be nurtured by hired minders, been bored out of her mind by the endless cycle of social demands, and probably taken up drinking or prescription drugs as a way of escaping the tedium and uselessness of her existence. Have seen that happen too many times!

Fortunately, Dora has found a purpose in life that suits her personality and isn't in any danger of being plucked away from it. Being estranged from one's parents is an undesirable situation but in this case it's the best thing that could have happened to her. Her uncle provided, and now Slugger continues to provide, the adult supervision, guidance and attention she needed and didn't get from Mom and Dad. Steve provides an outlet for her affection, even if there hasn't been any return (yet) on that investment.

I've rarely seen a young girl so uninterested in girl things. She keeps herself up and always looks nice, but couldn't care less about clothing or fashion or being wined and dined. Much like my sisters except they've all had the presence of mind to marry men who take them for what they are, not as they'd like them to be. I think Steve might be that kind of man, except she's going to have to grow some backbone or he'll run all over her. Also, Dora will always need continuing reassurance from the man in her life and he'll have to learn to give it.

That's not to say Dora is a doormat. There's a fierce temper lurking under that demure presence. I'm thinking that before she came to Follyfoot she was probably never in an environment where she was allowed to express it. Could be all she needs is a little bit of courage, a lot of motivation, and a buttload of practical advice on how to be a woman.

I thought she was gullible and could be easily led. Wrong!

**Technical issue:** None at present.

**Plan:** Also none.

**Note to self:** I don't know why I'm feeling so antsy. Maybe if I let Squirrel out for a run it might blow the cobwebs from my head.

CHAPTER 13: _**"O, for a horse with wings!"**_ • William Shakespeare

**Dora had intended to work two more boarders** that afternoon but kept getting interrupted. Two teenagers stopping by to inquire about rental horses. A string of phone calls about the stablehand position, about the "lost" horse, about a charity sale. First Dottie and then Slugger wanted 'a word' about non-expendable household needs.

A venerable old dame rattled up in an antiquated termite-riddled trap drawn by an elderly purblind pony mare; they had been expecting her for some time, she reminded Dora. She cried piteously as Slugger, sniffling himself, helped her into the Rover for the return trip to her home, from which her grandchildren would shortly be removing her to a nursing facility. This was the last joy ride she would ever take with her beloved Pansy. Dora felt like flooding the yard with tears herself.

Dora was thoroughly exasperated by the time she was summoned to the telephone yet again. This time it was Blair Statham, racing magnate and owner of an upscale breeding establishment some miles to the east of Follyfoot. She listened with growing alarm as the irate businessman ranted on about a horribly ugly dun stallion—obviously one of her lot—that had got in with his broodmares. His men had tried and failed to capture it and he was preparing to shoot to kill. After a five-minute harangue interrupted by Dora's impassioned pleas, the man finally agreed to hold off until they could get there with their horsebox. Dora flew out to the yard where Steve was just seeing off the farrier and communicated the emergency to him and to Ron working nearby on the car. Slugger and Dottie had run out after her in time to hear.

They scrambled to load the horsebox with ropes, a good stout halter and Ron's lasso and tore off down the road at top speed, gears grinding. Fifteen minutes later they turned off under an imposing concrete entranceway with "Statham Racing Stables" emblazoned across the arch. Pristine white fencing separated the the two-lane paved private access road from the hundreds of acres of weed- and wildflower-free grass on either side, dotted here and there with future steeplechase champions and their dams. In the distance gleamed an enclave of whitewashed buildings surrounded by paddocks radiating outwardly like pie slices. Enclosing all this was a full-sized oval racetrack. Steve pulled into a dedicated parking area and halted their shabby vehicle next to a line of gleaming white-enameled horse vans, conspicuously decorated with the scarlet and green Statham logo.

A bespectacled adolescent in a green and logoed uniform skipped out to greet them and personally escorted them into the august presence of Blair Statham, industrialist and financial wizard, currently masquerading as Squire Statham, breeder of exalted horseflesh whose mares might (or might not) have been compromised by the unwelcome intruder. He stood at the gate of one of the pie-shaped paddocks, bellowing at three mounted fellows desperately trying to isolate a small yellow horse from among the sleek bays and chestnuts, who were not cooperating. The three would-be vaqueros spread out, slowly converging on their quarry only have to the band of eight or so mares scuttle away with the visitor safely tucked among them.

Statham whirled around, aiming a finger at the three arrivals. "You! If any of my mares are damaged I'll sue! What hare-brained idiot keeps such a filthy beast, much less allows it to run amuck!" The diatribe continued in the same vein for a few more minutes with occasional asides to scream at the luckless riders. At length the man ran out of threats, or wind, and Dora boldly stepped up.

"Mr. Statham, sir... if I may, you're going about this all wrong. I believe if you'll call your men to withdraw and quit frightening the mares, we'll be able to just walk in there and get our horse without such a fuss. He knows us, after all."

Steve nervously eyed the shotgun Statham wielded; not that he was afraid of firearms, but that he was concerned the man might get too carried away with himself and actually discharge it. "Sir... please put that away. You wouldn't want to accidently hit one of your own horses, would you?" Apparently that possibility had not entered Statham's head; he handed it over to one of his lackeys.

His mouth opened and shut several times before he finally growled, "Alright, we'll try it your way... but if that doesn't work..." He made cocking, aiming and firing motions with his empty hands.

The horses scrunched together in a corner of the paddock as Steve, Dora and Ron walked toward them slowly. Slowly settling down, the mares allowed the humans to ease between them. One by one they moved off, leaving Squirrel by himself, tensed to bolt, swinging his head from one to the other. He was less than twenty feet from the stout six-foot-high fence separating this paddock from the next and they were confident they had him cornered.

With Dora to one side, Steve on the other and Ron in the center holding the lasso, they slowly closed in only to halt in stunned amazement when the animal simply pivoted in place and catapulted himself over the fence and into the adjoining enclosure with daylight to spare. He trotted a few feet away and turned to watch them. If he'd had fingers, he'd be be giving them two.

"That. Did. Not. Happen," Ron stated flatly.

"Why am I not surprised," Steve said.

"I think we have a problem," Dora opined.

They trudged back toward the paddock gate, over which Blair Statham was frozen in astonishment, his mouth hanging open. "What the hell was that?! There's not a horse alive could have made that jump from a standstill!"

"This is a very special horse, Mr. Statham. That's why we'd like him back." Dora said sweetly, trying not to laugh. "Would you do the honors?" She gestured at the gate and Statham allowed them to exit. They followed him to the gate of the adjoining paddock, where they repeated the plan of attack and attained the same result. A covy of stablehands accrued to Statham, lining the fence along with him as the circus moved from one paddock to the next.

It came to Dora that Squirrel was playing them along and enjoying himself immensely. He could at any time have chosen the curved outer edge of the pie slice and escaped to the track, and beyond that to the open pastures. She had to stifle her laughter. Steve himself was torn between irritation and amusement; he had also twigged on to what was going on. Ron, however, was grimly determined he was going to get to use his lasso one way or another.

The little horse seemed to be tiring and, as the capture team re-formed in the last paddock, he stood dejectedly with his front legs splayed. Ron's purported lasso technique wasn't even required; he merely strode up and dropped the loop over the animal's head, grinning and making a "V" for victory. Too late he realized he should have been maintaining a two-handed death grip on the other end of the rope, as it was rudely ripped from his hands. Squirrel went over the outside fence to the accompaniment of a report from a gunshot.

"Damnation, I was sure I got him," boomed a familiar voice as the three spun around in shock to find the district veterinarian lowering the tranquilizer rifle he always carried in his truck. He had already been on the premises for other reasons and had been summoned by Statham.

Squirrel, meanwhile, was streaking to freedom with Ron's lariat whipping behind him.

Blair Statham grabbed Dora by arm as soon as they exited the gate, simultaneous pulling out his wallet. "How much?" he demanded.

"Excuse me?"

"I said how much for that animal, young lady. Name your price!"

"Uh... er... he's not for sale, Mr. Statham."

"Money's no object, Miss Maddocks. I'll give you a blank check..."

Steve stepped in, gently prying Statham's hand off Dora's arm. "Sorry, sir. He's not ours to sell. He belongs to a guest at Follyfoot."

"Tell me the feller's name... I'll deal with him direct then!"

"The horse is not for sale, Mr. Statham," Steve reiterated. "Sorry for the inconvenience. We'll capture him as soon as he can and make sure he doesn't get away again.'

"Give us a name. I'll make it worth your while..." The man was gibbering and practically foaming at the mouth as visions of outrageous stud fees galloped through his head. The horse couldn't possibly be shown, of course, but his splendidly high-flying progeny would set world records!

The trio hurriedly retreated to their van, with Ron bemoaning the loss of his almost brand-new rope.

**Bernard didn't appear for evening chores or supper.** Slugger had cajoled Dottie into staying for the excellent meal which she herself had prepared over his mild resistance.

Eyes kept straying to the empty chair and a cloud of speculation hung over the table.

"Something's happened to him. I just know it," Dora fretted.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, girl," Steve said. "You're not his mum. He probably just pulled a Ron and skived off to the nearest pub. He'll be back when he sobers up."

"Not nice!" Ron objected, adding, "Funny thing, that. I been askin' around. Everyone seems to _know_ about this Yank but no one's _seen_ him. It's like he materialized out of thin air. Maybe he's an alien from outer space... or just a fig of our imaginations!"

"That's 'figment,' Ron," Dora corrected.

Slugger shook his head and muttered something about kelpies.

"I'm sure there's a good explanation," Dottie assured Dora. "You're not to worry."

Steve and Ron announced they were going into town to visit the Adult Education Centre and pursuaded Dora to join them. The three went upstairs to their rooms to change into suitable clothes.

Lingering over tea before clearing the table, Slugger and Dottie discussed in lowered voices the abortive horse-catching venture.

"He's not... er... dangerous in that condition, is he?" Slugger asked anxiously.

"Probably not," Dottie said, "The danger lies in what might be done _to_ him by others."

"Eh?"

Dottie sighed. "I'll put the kettle back on."

Slugger's mind had been in turmoil since his indoctrination into the realm of fantasy. Everything Dottie had said had been put forth so reasonably, so matter-of-factly... so _normally_. But getting his head wrapped around the idea that much of the folk superstition he'd been fed as a child was _true_... that was proving most difficult to absorb and accept.

"Likely he was having a lark, don't you see? Taunting them. He could have gone over any fence anytime he liked. But if that idiot Statham had shot him... well, that would have been messy indeed. Or fatal. Because in either form he can be shot just as dead." Dottie's comments were not reassuring.

Slugger closed his eyes and shivered. "Why would he have done this?"

Dottie colored slightly and twiddled her teaspoon. "It's not too hard to figure out why he ended up down the road in a pasture full of brood mares... bloody fool."

"How's that?"

"Edward... I've raised four boys of my own... four very _healthy_ boys, understand? At that age, they're simply et up with... erm... _urges_. I assume you remember what I'm referring to."

Slugger got the drift.

"He's been spending an inordinate amount of time alone with Dora and she's the only eligible female around here. Obviously he's not going to... er... you know... so..."

"Got it," Slugger interrupted, his ears flaming.

Dottie got up with a chuckle. "Wouldn't be surprised if Squire Statham got a few surprises of his own in his foaling sheds eleven months from now."

Slugger was scandalized.

"Now, there's nothing we can do so we might as well get busy and tend to our own knitting. I've got work to do and so do you." Dottie bustled off to the scullery with an armload of crockery.

**With the washing up done and the young people gone off**, the house were eerily quiet except for Dottie humming to herself as she prepared to leave for the day. Slugger collapsed into his rocker by the stove and snapped open the newspaper, a treat normally reserved for late in the evening. But his mind wandered. He heard the washing machine start up and a door open and close as Dottie went out to the kitchen garden. It was nice to have a woman about the house again, he realized—a solid, comforting presence and conversational peer. Well, there was Dora, of course... but that wasn't quite the same, more like having a grown daughter.

Slugger had called himself self-sufficient all these years since his wife's passing and would never have admitted to himself or anyone else that he suffered spells of loneliness and self-pity. Now, he suddenly realized, he was already accustomed to Dottie's presence and found he was quite liking having her around... if he didn't dwell on those other aspects. A germ of a thought sprang into his mind... but, no... there was no reason to suppose that an attractive widow might have the slightest interest in a washed-up boxer almost a dozen years her senior... No, that line of thought wouldn't do at all.

His ruminations were interrupted by Dottie's unsmiling face appearing around the scullery door and a crooked finger beckoning him.

"Come with me please. It appears we have a casualty in the cabbage patch," she said calmly. He lumbered out of the rocker and followed her through the scullery and out into the garden. Bernard, looking as if he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, sat on an overturned bucket with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands and his clothing in tatters. He looked up and croaked something unintelligible and attempted to stand up, promptly pitching face forward into the soft soil between two rows of cabbage heads.

"Hell's bells!" Dottie swore, kneeling by the inert body. "Help me get him inside." They each took an arm and hauled Bernard upright.

"Oh... eeyew!" Slugger exclaimed. Had he not known the circumstances he would have assumed the boy was intoxicated, although there was no telltale reek of alcohol. Still, he had sicked all over himself.

"Straight to the bath!" Dottie ordered, and once they had manhandled their unresistant victim through the door, the scullery, the kitchen, the hall and into the lavatory, "Off with his clothes and into the shower. You too... you'll have to hold him up."

"Er... _Dottie..._" Slugger had no intention of stripping down to his unmentionables in her presence, but Dottie the cheerful housekeeper had turned into Dorothy the efficient, ruthless charge nurse. "Just do it. For heaven's sake, old man, neither of you has anything I haven't seen a thousand times over... and when you've seen one, you've seen 'em all. Keep your drawers on if you're that modest, but his clothes have to go."

Bernard wasn't entirely unconscious, but his slitted eyes were hazy and unfocused. He protested feebly but to no avail at the indignities being visited upon him and gasped when the cold water hit his face. Self-conscious in his plaid boxers, Slugger gingerly took a washcloth and bar of soap from Dottie's hand before she yanked the shower curtain closed. Depositing two oversize bath towels on the commode seat and a plastic disposal bag in which to put the ruined clothes, Dottie withdrew from the bathroom.

With the mission accomplished and towels discreetly wrapped mid-section, the two were directed upstairs where Dottie then ordered Slugger to install pajamas on their patient and tuck him into bed, where Bernard immediately fell asleep. Dottie pointed out the rope burn on the victim's neck and a puncture wound circumscribed by a vivid bruise on his left shoulder.

"Seems the vet didn't miss after all," she said.

Slugger considered the grievous effects on a relatively small human body of even a mild veterinary sedative intended for the mass of a horse. Dealing with an errant dose of tranquilizer was beyond his purview.

"Shouldn't we call the doctor?" he asked.

"And what will he find? A young adult male in apparent good health other than having overindulged in alcohol or some other questionable substance, which isn't all that unusual amongst young people these days. No, best let him sleep it off. He should be recovered by morning. Check in on him every now and then and make sure he gets plenty of water to drink and nothing to eat until he's up and walking on his own."

Back downstairs, with Slugger properly reattired, they reconvened at the kitchen table for more tea. "One for the road," claimed Dottie.

"What are we going to tell the others," Slugger bleated.

"Ordinarily I wouldn't condone lying..." Dottie said, "but in this case... it would be best to keep it simple: the boy is suffering the brutal consequences of having gone on a monumental piss. He can't remember anything. Period. End of story."

"You think they'll buy that?"

"Why not? He wouldn't be the first drunk to fall into a ditch... that would include my boys and your Ron."

Dottie continued, "Soon as he wakes up, you need to coach him with that story, understand? Before any of the others talk to him."

"Understood," Slugger agreed.

"I'll be on my way, then. Good night, Edward," Dottie said, pushing up from the table and picking up her carryall.

**Steve, Dora and Ron returned to find Slugger snoozing in his rocker**, newspaper over his face. The boys were in a rousing good humor but Dora less so. Her first words to Slugger were to inquire if Bernard had turned up. Slugger informed her that he had, but was a bit under the weather and had gone on to bed.

"Is he alright? I'll just go up and have a look in, shall I?"

"No, no... I just did and he's sound asleep. Let him be, girl." No sense burdening her with the sordid and smelly details at this hour.

Steve wasn't satisfied with that answer. "What's wrong with him?"

"Don't rightly know yet. Looks like he might have had a wee dram too much, is all. What did you find out at the school?" Slugger adroitly changed the subject.

"Oh... well, I've signed up for some prep classes so I can get a proper leaving certificate. Then in about six months I can start with some night courses that will give me uni credits if I decide to go on." Steve grinned, looking pleased with himself. "And Ron's going to start with basic automotive maintenance at the same time. We've got orientation on Friday and classes start next week."

Ron was looking smug as well. Dora claimed to be both pleased and proud of both of them.

"What about you, Dora? You find anything to interest you as well?"

"Just the advanced cooking class, once I've done with the one I'm doing now. I'll think about it."

They chatted a few more minutes before drifting off to their respective bedrooms, leaving Slugger to bank the fire for the night and ponder what fresh calamities were in store on the morrow. _It's always something_, he thought gloomily.

**No journal entries for Wednesday night**

_**Continued in Volume III**_


End file.
